WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK 


OF 


GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT. 


WASHINGTON  IRVINCK  : 


"  I  have  no  wife  nor  children,  good  or  bad,  to  provide  for.  A  mere  spectator  of 
other  men's  fortunes  and  adventures,  and  how  they  play  their  parts  ;  which,  methinks, 
are  diversely  presented  unto  me,  as  from  a  common  theatre  or  scene. "BURTON. 


NEW  ILLUSTRATED  EDITION. 


COMPLETE  IN  ONE  VOLUME. 


NEW   YORK; 

WILLIAM  L.  ALLISON  COMPANY, 
PUBLISHERS, 


IN  MEMORIAM 


A/ 


CONTENTS. 


THE  AUTHOR'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIM&ISLF,    ......     0  n 

THE  VOYAGE,     .    .    ..............  13 

-ROSCOE,    .    .    <     .    .    .  .............  18 

-THE  WIFE,   .................  24 

RIP  VAN  WINKLE,     .....     ,    ........  30 

ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA,     .........  45 

RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND,     ..........    .  52 

-THE  BROKEN  HEART,     .............  58 

-THE  ART  OF  BOOK-MAKING,    ...........  63 

-  A  ROYAL  POET,     ...............  68 

THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH,      ............  80 

-THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON,    ...........  84 

-A  SUNDAY  IN  LONDON,  .............  90 

THE  BOAR'S  HEAD  TAVERN,  EASTCHEAP,     ......  92 

-THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE,  .........  101 

—RURAL  FUNERALS,      ..............  no 

-THE  INN  KITCHEN,    ..............  U9 

-THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM,    ...........  121 

WESTMINSTER  ABBEY,    .............  134 

CHRISTMAS,  .................  143 

THE  STAGE  COACH,   ..............  147 

CHRISTMAS  EVE,   ...............  153 

CHRISTMAS  DAY,  ...............  162 

THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER,  ............  173 

-LONDON  ANTIQUES,     ,     ....    ......    ,    .    ,  184 

LITTLE  BRITAIN,    ...............  189 

STRATFORD-ON-AVON,      ......     .    .....    .201 

TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER  .........    .216 

PHILIP   OF    POKANOKET,    .............  225 

JOHN  BULL,  .................  239 

THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE,     .    .    ........  248 

-THE  ANGLER,    ................  255 

THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLCW,      ........  262 

-L'ENVOY  ..........      .        ......  288 

APPENDIX,      .    ,     ......    .    ........  291 


PREFACE  TO  THE  REVISED  EDITION. 


THE  following  papers,  with  two  exceptions,  were  written  in  Eng 
land,  and  formed  but  part  of  an  intended  series,  for  which  I  had 
made  notes  and  memorandums.  Before  I  could  mature  a  plan, 
however,  circumstances  compelled  me  to  send  them  piecemeal  to 
the  United  States,  where  they  were  published  from  time  to  time  in 
portions  or  numbers.  It  was  not  my  intention  to  publish  them  in 
England,  being  conscious  that  much  of  their  contents  would  be 
interesting  only  to  American  readers,  and,  in  truth,  being  deterred 
by  the  severity  with  which  American  productions  had  been  treated 
by  the  British  press. 

By  the  time  the  contents  of  the  first  volume  had  appeared  in  thif 
occasional  manner,  they  began  to  find  their  way  across  the  Atlan 
tic,  and  to  be  inserted,  with  many  kind  encomiums,  in  the  L  ^ndon 
Literary  Gazette.  It  was  said,  also,  that  a  London  bookseller 
intended  to  publish  them  in  a  collective  form.  I  determined,  there 
fore,  to  bring  them  forward  myself,  that  they  might  at  least  have 
the  benefit  of  my  superintendence  and  revision.  I  accordingly 
took  the  printed  numbers  which  I  had  received  from  the  United 
States,  to  Mr.  John  Murray,  the  eminent  publisher,  from  whom  I 
had  already  received  friendly  attentions,  and  left  them  with  him 
for  examination,  informing  him  that  should  he  be  inclined  to  bring 
them  before  the  public,  I  had  materials  enough  on  hand  for  a  sec 
ond  volume.  Several  days  having  elapsed  without  any  communi 
cation  from  Mr.  Murray,  I  addressed  a  note  to  him,  in  which  I 
construed  his  silence  into  a  tacit  rejection  of  my  work,  and  begged 
that  the  numbers  I  had  left  with  him  might  be  returned  to  me. 
The  following  was  his  reply : 

MY  DEAR  SIR, — 

I  entreat  you  to  believe  that  I  feel  truly  obliged  by  your  kind 
intentions  towards  me,  and  that  I  entertain  the  most  unfeigned 
respect  for  your  most  tasteful  talents.  My  house  is  completely 
filled  with  workpeople  at  this  time,  and  I  have  only  an  office  to 
transact  business  in ;  and  yesterday  I  was  wholly  occupied,  or  I 
should  have  done  myself  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you. 

If  it  would  not  suit  me  to  engage  in  the  publication  of  your  pre 
sent  work,  it  is  only  because  I  do  not  see  that  scope  in  the  nature 


*:  •'"•-        *.  /  : :  •:  *  i     PREFACE. 

..  pf  itj^hicli  would  pnabte,me  to  make  those  satisfactory  accounts 
'•%3>fe<we.en;u9,  vtfithoijt  .wjiich:  I  really  feel  no  satisfaction  in  engaging 
— but  I  will  do  all  1 'can*  to  promote  their  circulation,  and  shall  be 
most  ready  to  attend  to  any  future  plan  of  yours. 
With  much  regard,  I  remain,  dear  sir, 

Your  faithful  servant, 

JOHN  MURRAY. 

This  was  disheartening,  and  might  have  deterred  me  from  any 
further  prosecution  of  the  matter,  had  the  question  of  republication 
in  Great  Britain  rested  entirely  with  me;  but  I  apprehended  the 
appearance  of  a  spurious  edition.  I  now  thought  of  Mr.  Archibald 
Constable  as  publisher,  having  been  treated  by  him  with  much 
hospitality  during  a  visit  to  Edinburgh ;  but  first  I  determined  to 
submit  my  work  to  Sir  Walter  (then  Mr.)  Scott,  being  encouraged 
to  do  so  by  the  cordial  reception  I  had  experienced  from  him  at 
Abbotsford  a  few  years  previously,  and  b.v  the  favorable  opinion 
he  had  expressed  to  others  of  my  earlier  writings.  I  accordingly 
sent  him  the  printed  numbers  of  the  Sketch  Book  in  a  parcel  by 
coach,  and  at  the  same  time  wrote  to  him,  hinting  that  since  I  had 
had  the  pleasure  of  partaking  of  his  hospitality,  a  reverse  had 
taken  place  in  my  affairs  which  made  the  successful  exercise  of  my 
pen  all-important  to  me ;  I  begged  him,  therefore,  to  look  over  the 
literary  articles  I  had  forwarded  to  him,  and,  if  he  thought  they 
would  bear  European  republication,  to  ascertain  whether  Mr.  Con 
stable  would  be  inclined  to  be  the  publisher. 

The  parcel  containing  my  work  went  by  coach  to  Scptt's  address 
in  Edinburgh;  the  letter  went  by  mail  to  his  residence  in  the  coun 
try.  By  the  very  first  post  I  received  a  reply,  before  he  had  seen 
my  work. 

"I  was  down  at  Kelso,"  said  he,  "when  your  letter  reached 
Abbotsford.  I  am  now  on  my  way  to  town,  and  will  converse  with 
Constable,  and  do  all  in  my  power  to  forward  your  views — I  assure 
you  nothing  will  give  me  more  pleasure." 

The  hint,  however,  about  a  reverse  of  fortune,  had  struck  the 
quick  apprehension  of  Scott,  and,  with  that  practical  and  efficient 
good  will  which  belonged  to  his  nature,  he  had  already  devised  a 
way  of  aiding  me. 

A  weekly  periodical,  he  went  on  to  inform  me,  was  about  to  be 
set  up  in  Edinburgh,  supported  by  the  most  respectable  talents, 
and  amply  furnished  with  all  the  necessary  information.  The 
appointment  of  the  editor,  for  which  ample  funds  were  provided, 
would  be  five  hundred  pounds  sterling  a  year,  with  the  reasonable 
prospect  of  further  advantages.  This  situation,  being  apparently 


PREFACE.  1 

at  his  disposal,  he  frankly  offered  to  me.  The  work,  however,  he 
intimated,  was  to  have  somewhat  of  a  political  bearing,  and  he 
expressed  an  apprehension  that  the  tone  it  was  desired  to  adopt 
might  not  suit  me.  "  Yet  I  risk  the  question,"  added  he,  "because 
I  know  no  man  so  well  qualified  for  this  important  task,  and  per 
haps  because  it  will  necessarily  bring  you  to  Edinburgh.  If  my 
proposal  does  not  suit,  you  need  only  keep  the  matter  secret,  and 
there  is  no  harm  done.  '  And  for  my  love  I  pray  you  wrong  me 
not.'  If,  on  the  contrary,  you  think  it  could  be  made  to  suit  you, 
let  me  know  as  soon  as  possible,  addressing  Castle-street,  Edin 
burgh." 

In  a  postscript,  written  from  Edinburgh,  he  adds,  "I  am  just 
come  here,  and  have  glanced  over  the  Sketch  Book.  It  is  posi 
tively  beautiful,  and  increases  my  desire  to  crimp  you,  if  it  be  pos 
sible.  Some  difficulties  there  always  are  in  managing  such  a  mat 
ter,  especially  at  the  outset ;  but  we  will  obviate  them  as  much  as 
we  possibly  can." 

The  following  is  from  an  imperfect  draught  of  my  reply,  which 
underwent  some  modifications  in  the  copy  sent  : 

"I  cannot  express  how  much  I  am  gratified  by  your  letter.  I 
had  begun  to  feel  as  if  I  had  taken  an  unwarrantable  liberty ;  but, 
somehow  or  other,  there  is  a  genial  sunshine  about  you  that  warms 
every  creeping  thing  into  heart  and  confidence.  Your  literary  pro 
posal  both  surprises  and  flatters  me,  as  it  evinces  a  much  higher 
opinion  of  my  talents  than  I  have  myself.'* 

I  then  went  on  to  explain  that  I  found  myself  peculiarly  unfitted 
for  the  situation  offered  to  me,  not  merely  by  my  political  opinions, 
but  by  the  very  constitution  and  habits  of  my  mind.     "My  whole 
course  of  life,"  I  observed,  "has  been  desultory,  and  I  am  unfitted  Ij 
for  any  periodically  recurring  task,  or  any  stipulated  labor  of  body  j 
or  mind.     I  have  no  command  of  my  talents,  such  as  they  areT^ 
and  have  to  watch  the  vary  ings  of  my  mind  as  I  would  those  of  a 
weather-cock.     Practice  and  training  may  bring  me  more  into  rule ; 
but  at  present  I  am  as  useless  for  regular  service  as  one  of  my  own 
country  Indians  or  a  Don  Cossack. 

"  I  must,  therefore,  keep  on  pretty  much  as  I  have  begun  ;  writ 
ing  when  I  can,  not  when  I  would.  I  shall  occasionally  shift  my 
residence  and  write  whatever  is  suggested  by  objects  before  me,  or 
whatever  rises  in  my  imagination;  and  hope  to  write  better  and 
more  copiously  by  and  by. 

"  I  am  playing  the  egotist,  but  I  know  no  better  way  of  answer 
ing  your  proposal  than  by  showing  what  a  very  good-for-nothing 
kind  of  being  I  am.  Should  Mr.  Constable  feei  inclined  to  make 


8  PREFACE. 

a  bargain  for  the  wares  I  have  on  hand,  he  will  encourage  me  to 
further  enterprise ;  and  it  will  be  something  like  trading  with  a  gipsy 
for  the  fruits  of  his  prowlings,  who  may  at  one  time  have  nothing 
but  a  wooden  bowl  to  offer,  and  at  another  time  a  silver  tankard." 

In  reply,  Scott  expressed  regret,  but  not  surprise,  at  my  declin 
ing  what  might  have  proved  a  troublesome  duty.  He  then  recurred 
to  the  original  subject  of  our  correspondence;  entered  into  a 
detail  of  the  various  terms  upon  which  arrangements  were  made 
between  authors  and  booksellers,  that  I  might  take  my  choice; 
expressing  the  most  encouraging  confidence  of  the  success  of  my 
work,  and  of  previous  works  which  I  had  produced  in  America. 
"I  did  no  more,"  added  he,  "than  open  the  trenches  with  Con 
stable  ;  but  I  am  sure  if  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  write  to  him,  you 
will  find  him  disposed  to  treat  your  overtures  with  every  degree  of 
attention.  Or,  if  you  think  it  of  consequence  in  the  first  place  to 
see  me,  I  shall  be  in  London  in  the  course  of  a  month,  and  whaf 
ever  my  experience  can  command  is  most  heartily  at  your  com' 
mand.  But  I  can  add  little  to  what  I  have  said  above,  except 
my  earnest  recommendation  to  Constable  to  enter  into  the 
negotiation."* 

Before  the  receipt  of  this  most  obliging  letter,  however,  I  had 
determined  to  look  to  no  leading  bookseller  for  a  launch,  but 
to  throw  my  work  before  the  public  at  my  own  risk,  and  let  it 
sink  or  swim  according  to  its  merits.  I  wrote  to  that  effect  to  Scott, 
and  soon  received  a  reply  : 

"I  observe  with  pleasure  that  you  are  going  to  come  forth  in 
Britain.  It  is  certainly  not  the  very  best  way  to  publish  on  one's 
own  account ;  for  the  booksellers  set  their  face  against  the  circula 
tion  of  such  works  as  do  not  pay  an  amazing  toll  to  themselves. 
But  they  have  lost  the  art  of  altogether  damming  up  the  road  in 
such  cases  between  the  author  and  the  public,  which  they  were 
once  able  to  do  as  effectually  as  Diabolus  in  John  Bunyan's  Holy 
War  closed  up  the  windows  of  my  Lord  Understanding's  mansion. 
I  am  sure  of  one  thing,  that  you  have  only  to  be  known  to  the  Brit- 

*  I  cannot  avoid  subjoining  in  a  note  a  succeeding  paragraph  of  Scott's  letter, 
which,  though  it  does  not  relate  to  the  main  subject  of  our  correspondence, 
was  too  characteristic  to  be  omitted.  Some  time  previously  I  had  sent  Miss 
Sophia  Scott  small  duodecimo  American  editions  of  her  father's  poems  pub 
lished  in  Edinburgh  in  quarto  volumes  ;  showing  the  "  nigromancy"  of  the 
American  press,  by  which  a  quart  of  wine  is  conjured  into  a  pint  bottle. 
Scott  observes  :  "in  my  hurry,  I  have  not  thanked  you  in  Sophia's  name  for 
the  kind  attention  which  furnished  her  with  the  American  volumes.  I  am  not 
quite  sure  I  can  add  my  own,  since  you  have  made  her  acquainted  with  much 
more  of  papa's  folly  then  she  would  ever  otherwise  have  learned :  for  I  had 
taken  special  care  they  should  never  see  any  of  those  things  durlne  their 
earlier  years.  I  think  I  told  you  that  Walter  i.4  sweeping  the  Imminent  with 
ajeather  like  a  maypole,  and  indenting  the  pavement  with  a  sword  like  a  scythe 
—in  other  words,  he  has  become  a  whiskered  hussar  iu  the  18th  dragoons/ 


PREFACE.  f 

ish  public  to  be  admired  by  them,  and  I  would  not  say  so  unless  I 

real^was  of  that  opinion. 

"Tf  you  ever  see  a  witty  but  rather  local  publication  called  Black- 
wood's  Edinburgh  Magazine,  you  will  find  some  notice  of  your 
works  in  the  last  number:  the  author  is  a  friend  of  mine,  to  whom 
I  have  introduced  you  in  your  literary  capacity.  His  name  is  Lock- 
hart,  a  young  man  of  very  considerable  talent,  and  who  will  soon 
be  intimately  connected  with  my  family.  My  faithful  friend  Knick 
erbocker  is  to  be  next  examined  and  illustrated.  Constable  was 
extremely  willing  to  enter  into  consideration  of  a  treaty  for  your 
works,  but  I  foresee  will  be  still  more  so  when 

Your  name  is  up,  and  may  go 
From  Toledo  to  Madrid. 

And  that  will  soon  be  the  case.  I  trust  to  be  in  London 

about  the  middle  of  the  month,  and  promise  myself  great  pleasure 
in  once  again  shaking  you  by  the  hand." 

The  first  volume  of  the  Sketch- Book  was  put  to  press  in  London 
as  I  had  resolved,  at  my  own  risk,  by  a  bookseller  unknown  to 
fame,  and  without  any  of  the  usual  arts  by  which  a  work  is  trum 
peted  into  notice.  Still,  some  attention  had  been  called  to  it  by  the 
extracts  which  had  previously  appeared  in  the  Literary  Gazette,  and 
by  the  kind  word  spoken  by  the  editor  of  that  periodical,  and  it  was 
getting  into  fair  circulation,  when  my  worthy  bookseller  failed  before 
the  first  month  was  over,  and  the  sale  was  interrupted. 

At  this  juncture  Scott  arrived  in  London.  I  called  to  him  for 
help,  as  I  was  sticking  in  the  mire,  and,  more  propitious  than  Her 
cules,  he  put  his  own  shoulder  to  the  wheel.  Through  his  favor 
able  representations,  Murray  was  quickly  induced  to  undertake  the 
future  publication  of  the  work  which  he  had  previously  declined. 
A  further  edition  of  the  first  volume  was  struck  off,  and  the  second 
volume  was  put  to  press,  and  from  that  time  Murray  became  my  pub 
lisher,  conducting  himself  in  all  his  dealings  with  that  fair,  open, 
and  liberal  spirit  which  had  obtained  for  him  the  well-merited 
appellation  of  the  Prince  of  Booksellers. 

Thus,  under  the  kind  and  cordial  auspices  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  I 
began  my  literary  career  in  Europe;  and  I  feel  that  I  am  but  dis 
charging,  in  a  trifling  degree,  my  debt  of  gratitude  to  the  memory 
of  that  golden-hearted  man  in  acknowledging  my  obligations  to 
him.  But  who  of  his  literary  contemporaries  ever  applied  to  him 
for  aid  or  counsel  that  did  not  experience  the  most  prompt,  gener 
ous,  and  effectual  assistance ! 

W.L 

184*.  . 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


THE  AUTHOR'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF. 

'I  am  of  this  mind  with  Homer,  that  as  the  snaile  that  crept  out  of  her  shel 
was  turned  eftsoons  into  a  toad,  and  thereby  was  forced  to  make  a  stoole  to  sit 
on ;  so  the  traveller  that  stragleth  from  his  owne  country  is  in  a  short  time 
transformed  into  so  monstrous  a  shape,  that  he  is  faine  to  alter  his  mansion 
Vith  his  manners,  and  to  live  where  he  can,  not  where  he  would." 

LYLY'S  EUPHUES. 

I  WAS  always  fond  of  visiting  new  scenes,  and  observing  strange 
characters  and  manners.  Even  when  a  mere  child  I  began 
my  travels,  and  made  many  tours  of  discovery  into  foreign 
parts  and  unknown  regions  of  my  native  city,  to  the  frequent  alarm 
of  my  parents,  and  the  emolument  of  the  town-crier.  As  I  grew 
into  boyhood,  I  extended  the  range  of  my  observations.  My  holi 
day  afternoons  were  spent  in  rambles  about  the  surrounding  coun* 
try.  I  made  myself  familiar  with  all  its  places  famous  in  history  or 
fable.  I  knew  every  spot  where  a  murder  or  robbery  had  been 
committed,  or  a  ghost  seen.  I  visited  the  neighboring  villages,  and 
added  greatly  to  my  stock  of  knowledge,  by  noting  their  habits  and 
customs,  and  conversing  with  their  sages  and  great  men.  I  even 
journeyed  one  long  summer's  day  to  the  summit  of  the  most  dis 
tant  hill,  whence  I  stretched  my  eye  over  many  a  mile  of  terra 
incognita,  and  was  astonished  to  find  how  vast  a  globe  I  inhabited. 

This  rambling  propensity  strengthened  with  my  years.  Books  of 
voyages  and  travels  became  my  passion,  and  in  devouring  their 
contents,  I  neglected  the  regular  exercises  of  the  school.  How 
wistfully  would  I  wander  about  the  pier-heads  in  fine  weather,  and 
watch  the  parting  ships,  bound  to  distant  climes — with  what  long 
ing  eyes  would  I  gaze  after  their  lessening  sails,  and  waft  myself  in 
imagination  to  the  ends  of  the  earth ! 

Further  reading  and  thinking,  though  they  brought  this  vague 
inclination  into  more  reasonable  bounds,  only  served  to  make  it 
more  decided.  I  visited  various  parts  of  my  own  country  ;  and  had 
I  oeen  merely  a  lover  of  fine  scenery,  I  should  have  felt  little  desire 
to  seek  elsewhere  its  gratification,  for  on  no  country  have  the 
charms  of  nature  been  more  prodigally  lavished.  Her  mighty 
lakes,  like  oceans  of  liquid  silver  ;  her  mountains,  with  their  bright 
aerial  tints ;  her  valleys,  teeming  with  wild  fertility ;  her  tremendou 


Ift  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

cataracts,  thundering  in  their  solitudes;  her  boundless  plains,  waving 
with  spontaneous  verdure;  her  broad,  deep  rivers,  rolling  in  solemn 
silence  to  the  ocean ;  her  trackless  forests,  where  vegetation  puts 
forth  all  its  magnificence  ;  her  skies,  kindling  with  the  magic  of 
summer  clouds  and  glorious  sunshine; — no,  never  need  an  American 
look  beyond  his  own  country  for  the  sublime  and  beautiful  of  nat 
ural  scenery. 

But  Europe  held  forth  the  charms  of  storied  and  poetical  associa- 
1  tion.  There  were  to  be  seen  the  masterpiece  of  art,  the  refine 
ments  of  highly-cultivated  society,  the  quaint  peculiarities  of 
ancient  and  local  custom.  My  native  country  was  full  of  youthful 
promise :  Europe  was  rich  in  the  accumulated  treasures  of  age. 
Her  very  ruins  told  the  history  of  times  gone  by,  and  every  mould 
ering  stone  was  a  chronicle.  I  longed  to  wander  over  the  scenes 
of  renowned  achievement — to  tread,  as  it  were,  in  the  footsteps  of 
antiquity — to  loiter  about  the  ruined  castle — to  meditate  on  the  fall 
ing  tower — to  escape,  in  short,  from  the  common-place  realities  of 
the  present,  and  lose  myself  among  the  shadowy  grandeurs  of  the 
past. 

I  had,  beside  all  this,  an  earnest  desire  to  see  the  great  men  oi 
the  earth.  We  have,  it  is  true,  our  great  men  in  America  :  not  a 
city  but  has  an  ample  share  of  them.  I  have  mingled  among  them 
in  my  time,  and  been  almost  withered  by  the  shade  into  which  they 
cast  me  ;  for  there  is  nothing  so  baleful  to  a  small  man  as  the  shade 
of  a  great  one,  particularly  the  great  man  of  a  city.  But  I  was 
anxious  to  see  the  great  men  of  Europe ;  for  I  had  read  in  the 
works  of  various  philosophers,  that  all  animals  degenerated  in 
\merica,  and  man  among  the  number.  A  great  man  of  Europe, 
/nought  I,  must  therefore  be  assuperior  to  a  great  man  of  America, 
as  a  peak  of  the  Alps  to  a  highland  of  the  Hudson  ;  and  in  this  idea 
I  was  confirmed,  by  observing  the  comparative  importance  and 
swelling  magnitude  of  many  English  travellers  anong  us,  who,  I 
was  assured,  were  very  little  people  in  their  own  country.  I  will 
visit  this  land  of  wonders,  thought  I,  and  see  the  gigantic  race  from 
which  I  am  degenerated. 

It  has  been  either  my  good  or  evil  lot  to  have  my  roving  passion 
gratified.  I  have  wandered  through  different  countries,  and  wit 
nessed  many  of  the  shifting  scenes  of  life.  I  cannot  say  that  I 
have  studied  them  with  the  eye  of  a  philosopher;  but  rather  with 
the  sauntering  gaze  with  which  humble  lovers  of  the  picturesque 
stroll  from  the  window  of  one  print-shop  to  another;  caught  some 
times  by  the  delineations  of  beauty,  sometimes  by  the  distortions  of 
caricature,  and  sometimes  by  the  loveliness  of  landscape.  As  it  is 


THE  VOYAGE.  13 

the  fashion  for  modern  tourists  to  travel  pencil  in  hand,  and  bring 
home  their  protfolios  filled  with  sketches,  I  am  disposed  to  get  up  a 
few  for  the  entertainment  of  my  friends.  When,  however,  I  look 
over  the  hints  and  memorandums  I  have  taken  down  for  the 
purpose,  my  heart  almost  fails  me  at  finding  how  my  idle  humor 
has  led  me  aside  from  the  great  objects  studied  by  every  regular 
traveller  who  would  make  a  book.  I  fear  I  shall  give  equal  disap 
pointment  with  an  unlucky  landscape  painter,  who  had  travelled 
on  the  continent,  but,  following  the  bent  of  his  vagrant  inclination, 
had  sketched  in  nooks,  and  corners,  and  by-places.  His  sketch 
book  was  accordingly  crowded  with  cottages,  and  landscapes,  and 
obscure  ruins;  but  he  had  neglected  to  paint  St.  Peter's,  or  the 
Coliseum;  the  cascade  of  Terni,  or  the  bay  of  Naples;  and  had 
not  a  single  glacier  or  volcano  in  his  whole  collection. 


THE  VOYAGE, 

Ships,  shi 
Ami 


Amidst  the  main, 
I  will  come  and  try  you, 
What  you  are  protecting, 
And  projecting, 

What's  your  end  and  aim. 
One  goes  abroad  for  merchandise  and  trading, 
Another  stays  to  keep  his  country  from  invadi 


an  American  visiting  Europe,  the  long  voyage  he  has  to  make 
is  an  excellent  preparative.  The  temporary  absence  of 
worldly  scenes  and  employments  produces  a  state  of  mind 
peculiarly  fitted  to  receive  new  and  vivid  impressions.  The  vast 
space  of  waters  that  separates  the  hemispheres  is  like  a  blank  page 
in  existence.  There  is  no  gradual  transition,  by  which,  as  in 
Europe,  the  features  and  population  of  one  country  blend  almost 
imperceptibly  with  those  of  another.  From  the  moment  you  lose 
sight  of  the  land  you  have  left,  all  is  vacancy  until  you  step  on  the 
opposite  shore,  and  are  launched  at  once  into  the  bustle  and  novel 
ties  of  another  world. 

In  travelling  by  land  there  is  a  continuity  of  scene  and  a  con 
nected  succession  of  persons  and  incidents,  that  carry  on  the  story 
of  life,  and  lessen  the  effect  of  absence  and  separation.  We  drag, 
to  i§  true,  "  a  lengthening  chain,'  '  at  each  remove  of  our  pUgrimag*; 


14  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

but  the  chain  is  unbroken  :  we  can  trace  it  back  link  by  ?ink :  awi 
we  teel  that  the  last  still  grapples  us  to  home.  But  a  wide  sea  voy 
age  severs  us  at  once.  It  makes  us  conscious  of  being  cast  loose 
from  the  secure  anchorage  of  settled  life,  and  sent  adrift  upon  a 
doubtful  world.  It  interposes  a  gulf,  not  merely  imaginary,  but 
real,  between  us  and  our  homes — a  gulf  subject  to  tempest,  and  fear, 
and  uncertainty,  rendering  distance  palpable,  and  return  precarious. 

Such,  at  least,  was  the  case  with  myself.  As  I  saw  the  last  blue 
line  of  my  native  land  fade  away  like  a  cloud  in  the  horizon,  it 
seemed  as  if  I  had  closed  one  volume  of  the  world  and  its  concerns, 
and  had  time  for  meditation  before  I  opened  another.  That  land, 
too,  now  vanishing  from  my  view,  which  contained  all  most  dear  to 
me  in  life ;  what  vicissitudes  might  occur  in  it — what  changes  might 
take  place  in  me,  before  I  should  visit  it  again !  Who  can  tell,  when 
he  sets  forth  to  wander,  whither  he  may  be  driven  by  the  uncertain 
currents  of  existence  ;  or  when  he  may  return ;  or  whether  it  may 
ever  be  his  lot  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his  childhood  ? 

I  said  that  at  sea  all  is  vacancy  ;  I  should  correct  the  expression. 
To  one  given  to  day-dreaming,  and  fond  of  losing  himself  in  rev« 
eries,  a  sea  voyage  is  full  of  subjects  for  meditation ;  but  then  they  are 
the  wonders  of  the  deep,  and  of  the  air,  and  rather  tend  to  abstract 
the  mind  from  worldly  themes.  I  delighted  to  loll  over  the  quarter- 
railing,  or  climb  to  the  main-top,  of  a  calm  day,  and  muse  for  hours 
together  on  the  tranquil  bosom  of  a  summer's  sea ;  to  gaze  upon 
the  piles  of  golden  clouds  just  peering  above  the  horizon,  fancy 
them  some  fairy  realms,  and  people  them  with  a  creation  of  my 
own ; — to  watch  the  gentle,  undulating  billows,  rolling  their  silver 
volumes,  as  if  to  die  away  on  those  happy  shores. 

There  was  a  delicious  sensation  of  mingled  security  and  awe 
with  which  I  looked  down  from  my  giddy  height,  on  the  monsters 
of  the  deep  at  their  uncouth  gambols.  Shoals  of  porpoises  tumb 
ling  about  the  bow  of  the  ship ;  the  grampus  slowly  heaving  his 
huge  form  above  the  surface  ;  or  the  ravenous  shark,  darting,  like 
a  spectre,  through  the  blue  waters.  My  imagination  would  con 
jure  up  all  that  I  had  heard  or  read  of  the  watery  world  beneath 
me;  of  the  finny  herds  that  roam  its  fathomless  valleys;  of  the 
shapeless  monsters  that  lurk  among  the  very  foundations  of  the 
earth ;  and  of  those  wild  phantasms  that  swell  the  tales  of  fisher 
men  and  sailors. 

Sometimes  a  distant  sail,  gliding  along  the  edge  of  the  ocean, 
would  be  another  theme  of  idle  speculation.  How  interesting  this 
fragment  of  a  world,  hastening  to  rejoin  the  great  mass  of  exist 
ence!  What  a  glorious  monument  of  human  invention;  which 


THE  VOYAGE.  15 

has  in  a  manner  triumphed  over  wind  and  wave ;  has  brought  the 
ends  of  the  world  into  communion ;  has  established  an  interchange 
of  blessings,  pouring  into  the  sterile  regions  of  the  north  all  the 
luxuries  of  the  south ;  has  diffused  the  light  of  knowledge  and  the 
charities  of  cultivated  life ;  and  has  thus  bound  together  those 
scattered  portions  of  the  human  race,  between  which  nature  seemed 
to  have  thrown  an  insurmountable  barrier. 

We  one  day  descried  some  shapeless  object  drifting  at  a  distance. 
At  sea,  every  thing  that  breaks  the  monotony  of  the  surrounding 
expanse  attracts  attention.  It  proved  to  be  the  mast  of  a  ship  that 
must  have  been  completely  wrecked ;  for  there  were  the  remains 
of  handkerchiefs,  by  which  some  of  the  crew  had  fastened  them 
selves  to  this  spar,  to  prevent  their  being  washed  off  by  the  waves. 
There  was  no  trace  by  which  the  name  of  the  ship  could  be  ascer 
tained.  The  wreck  had  evidently  drifted  about  for  many  months ; 
clusters  of  shell-fish  had  fastened  about  it,  and  long  sea-weeds 
flaunted  at  its  sides.  But  where,  thought  I,  is  the  crew?  Their 
struggle  has  long  been  over — they  have  gone  down  amidst  the  roar 
of  the  tempest— their  bones  lie  whitening  among  the  caverns  of 
the  deep.  Silence,  oblivion,  like  the  waves,  have  closed  over  them, 
and  no  one  can  tell  the  story  of  their  end.  What  sighs  have  been 
wafted  after  that  ship!  what  prayers  offered  up  at  the  deserted 
fireside  of  home !  How  often  has  the  mistress,  the  wife,  the  mother, 
pored  over  the  daily  news,  to  catch  some  casual  intelligence  of  this 
rover  of  the  deep !  How  has  expectation  darkened  into  anxiety — 
anxiety  into  dread — and  dread  into  despair !  Alas !  not  one 
memento  may  ever  return  for  love  to  cherish.  All  that  may  ever 
be  known,  is,  that  she  sailed  from  her  port,  "  and  was  never  heard 
of  more ! " 

The  sight  of  this  wreck,  as  usual,  gave  rise  to  many  dismal 
anecdotes.  This  was  particularly  the  case  in  the  evening,  when 
the  weather,  which  had  hitherto  been  fair,  began  to  look  wild  and 
threatening,  and  gave  indications  of  one  of  those  sudden  storms 
which  will  sometimes  break  in  upon  the  serenity  of  a  summer  voy 
age.  As  we  sat  round  the  dull  light  of  a  lamp  in  the  cabin,  that 
made  the  gloom  more  ghastly,  every  one  had  his  tale  of  shipwreck 
and  disaster.  I  was  particularly  struck  with  a  short  one  related  by 
the  captain. 

"As  I  was  once  sailing,"  said  he,  "in  a  fine  stout  ship  across 
the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  one  of  those  heavy  fogs  which  pre 
vail  in  those  parts  rendered  it  impossible  for  us  to  see  far  ahead 
even  in  the  daytime ;  but  at  night  the  weather  was  so  thick  that 
we  could  not  distinguish  any  object  at  twice  the  length  of  the  ship. 


16  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

\  kept  lights  at  the  mast-head,  and  a  constant  watch  forward  to 
look  out  for  fishing  smacks,  which  are  accustomed  to  lie  at  anchor 
on  the  banks.  The  wind  was  blowing  a  smacking  breeze,  and  we 
were  going  at  a  great  rate  through  the  water.  Suddenly  the  watch 
5fave  the  alarm  of '  a  sail  ahead !  * — it  was  scarcely  uttered  before 
we  were  upon  her.  She  was  a  small  schooner,  at  anchor,  with  her 
broadside  towards  us.  The  crew  were  all  asleep,  and  had  neg 
lected  to  hoist  a  light.  We  struck  her  just  amid-ships.  The  force, 
the  size,  and  weight  of  our  vessel  bore  her  down  below  the  waves ; 
we  passed  over  her  and  were  hurried  on  our  course.  As  the  crash 
ing  wreck  was  sinking  beneath  us,  I  had  a  glimpse  of  two  or  three 
half-naked  wretches  rushing  from  her  cabin ;  they  just  started  from 
their  beds  to  be  swallowed  shrieking  by  the  waves.  I  heard  their 
drowning  cry  mingling  with  the  wind.  The  blast  that  bore  it  to 
our  ears  swept  us  out  of  all  farther  hearing.  I  shall  never  forget 
that  cry !  It  was  some  time  before  we  could  put  the  ship  about, 
she  was  under  such  headway.  We  returned,  as  nearly  as  we  could 
guess,  to  the  place  where  the  smack  had  anchored.  We  cruised 
about  for  several  hours  in  the  dense  fog.  We  fired  signal  guns, 
and  listened  if  we  might  hear  the  halloo  of  any  survivors :  but  all 
was  silent — we  never  saw  or  heard  any  thing  of  them  more." 

I  confess  these  stories,  for  a  time,  put  an  end  to  all  my  fine  fan- 
ries.  The  storm  increased  with  the  night.  The  sea  was  lashed 
into  tremendous  confusion.  There  was  a  fearful,  sullen  sound  of 
rushing  waves,  and  broken  surges.  Deep  called  unto  deep.  At 
times  the  black  volume  of  clouds  over  head  seemed  rent  asunder 
by  flashes  of  lightning  which  quivered  along  the  foaming  billows, 
and  made  the  succeeding  darkness  doubly  terrible.  The  thunders 
bellowed  over  the  wild  waste  of  waters,  and  were  echoed  and  pro 
longed  by  the  mountain  waves.  As  I  saw  the  ship  staggering  and 
plunging  among  these  roaring  caverns,  it  seemed  miraculous  that 
she  regained  her  balance,  or  preserved  her  buoyancy.  Her  yards 
would  dip  into  the  water :  her  bow  was  almost  buried  beneath  the 
waves.  Sometimes  an  impending  surge  appeared  ready  to  over 
whelm  her,  and  nothing  but  a  dexterous  movement  of  the  helm 
preserved  her  from  the  shock. 

When  I  retired  to  my  cabin,  the  awful  scene  still  followed  me. 
The  whistling  of  the  wind  through  the  rigging  sounded  like  funereal 
wailings.  The  creaking  of  the  masts,  the  straining  and  groaning 
of  bulk-heads,  as  the  ship  labored  in  the  weltering  sea,  were  fright 
ful  As  I  heard  the  waves  rushing  along  the  sides  of  the  ship,  and 
roaring  in  my  very  ear,  it  seemed  as  if  Death  wwe  raging  round 


THE  VOYAGE.  \j 

fttis  floating  prtson,  seeking  for  his  prey :  the  mere  starting  of  a  nail, 
tfce  yawning  of  a  seam,  might  give  him  entrance. 

A  fine  day,  nowever,  with  a  tranquil  sea  and  favoring  breeze, 
soon  put  all  these  dismal  reflections  to  flight.  It  is  impossible  to 
resist  the  gladdening  influence  of  fine  weather  and  fair  wind  at  sea. 
When  the  ship  is  decked  out  in  all  her  canvas,  every  sail  swelled, 
and  careering  gayly  over  the  curling  waves,  how  lofty,  how  gal 
lant  she  appears — how  she  seems  to  lord  it  over  the  deep! 

I  might  fill  a  volume  with  the  reveries  of  a  sea  voyage,  for  with 
me  it  is  almost  a  continual  reverie— but  it  is  time  to  get  to  shore. 

It  was  a  fine,  sunny  morning  when  the  thrilling  cry  of  "  land ! H 
was  given  from  the  mast-head.  None  but  those  who  have  experi 
enced  it  can  form  an  idea  of  the  delicious  throng  of  sensations 
which  rush  into  an  American's  bosom,  when  he  first  comes  in  sight 
of  Europe.  There  is  a  volume  of  associations  with  the  very  name. 
It  is  the  land  of  promise,  teeming  with  everything  of  which  his 
childhood  has  heard,  or  on  which  his  studious  years  have  pon 
dered. 

From  that  time  until  the  moment  of  arrival,  it  was  all  feverish 
excitement.  The  ships  of  war,  that  prowled  like  guardian  giants 
along  the  coast ;  the  headlands  of  Ireland,  stretching  out  into  the 
channel ;  the  Welsh  mountains,  towering  into  the  clouds ;  all  were 
objects  of  intense  interest.  As  we  sailed  up  the  Mersey,  I  recon 
noitred  the  shores  with  a  telescope.  My  eye  dwelt  with  delight 
on  neat  cottages,  with  their  trim  shrubberies  and  green  grass  plots. 
I  saw  the  mouldering  ruin  of  an  abbey  overrun  with  ivy,  and  the 
taper  spire  of  a  village  church  rising  from  the  brow  of  a  neighbor* 
ing  hill — all  were  characteristic  of  England. 

The  tide  and  wind  were  so  favorable  that  the  ship  was  enabled 
to  come  at  once  to  the  pier.  It  was  thronged  with  people ;  some, 
idle  lookers-on,  others,  eager  expectants  of  friends  or  relatives.  I 
could  distinguish  the  merchant  to  whom  the  ship  was  consigned, 
I  knew  him  by  his  calculating  brow  and  restless  air.  His  hands 
were  thrust  into  his  pockets;  he  was  whistling  thoughtfully,  and 
walking  to  and  fro,  a  small  space  having  been  accorded  him  by  the 
crowd,  in  deference  to  his  temporary  importance.  There  were 
repeated  cheerings  and  salutations  interchanged  between  the  shore 
and  the  ship,  as  friends  happened  to  recognize  each  other.  I  par 
ticularly  noticed  one  young  woman  of  humble  dress,  but  interest 
ing  demeanor.  She  was  leaning  forward  from  among  the  crowd ; 
her  eye  hurried  over  the  ship  as  it  neared  the  shore,  to  catch  some 
wished-for  countenance.  She  seemed  disappointed  and  agitated ; 
when  I  beard  a  faint  voice  call  her  name.  It  was  from  a  poor 


1 8  THE  SKETCHBOOK. 

sailor  who  had  been  ill  all  the  voyage,  and  had  excited  the  sym« 
pathy  of  every  one  on  board.  When  the  weather  was  fine,  his 
messmates  had  spread  a  mattress  for  him  on  deck  in  the  shade,  but 
of  late  his  illness  had  so  increased,  that  he  had  taken  to  his  ham 
mock,  and  only  breathed  a  wish  that  he  might  see  his  wife  before 
he  died.  He  had  been  helped  on  deck  as  we  came  up  the  river, 
and  was  now  leaning  against  the  shrouds,  with  a  countenance  so 
wasted,  so  pale,  so  ghastly,  that  it  was  no  wonder  even  the  eye 
of  affection  did  not  recognize  him,  But  at  the  sound  of  his  voice, 
her  eye  darted  on  his  features  ;  it  read,  at  once,  a  whole  volume  of 
sorrow ;  she  clasped  her  hands,  uttered  a  faint  shriek,  and  stood 
wringing  them  in  silent  agony. 

All  now  was  hurry  and  bustle.  The  meetings  of  acquaintances 
— the  greetings  of  friends — the  consultations  of  men  of  business. 
I  alone  was  solitary  and  idle.  I  had  no  friend  to  meet,  no  cheering 
to  receive.  I  stepped  upon  the  land  of  my  forefathers — but  felt  that 
I  was  a  stranger  in  the  land* 


ROSCQE. 

————In  the  service  of  mankind  to  be 
A  guardian  god  below;  still  to  employ 
The  mind's  brave  ardor  in  heroic  aims. 
Such  as  may  raise  us  o'er  the  grovelling  herd, 
And  make  us  shine  for  ever— that  is  life, 

THOMSON. 

ONE  of  the  first  places  to  which  a  stranger  is  taken  in  Liverpool 
is  the  Athenaeum.     It  is  established  on  a  liberal  and  judicious 
plan;  it  contains  a  good  library  and  spacious  reading-room, 
and  is  the  great  literary  resort  of  the  place.     Go  there  at  what  hour 
you  may,  you  are  sure  to  find  it  filled  with  grave-looking  person 
ages,  deeply  absorbed  in  the  study  of  newspapers. 

As  I  was  once  visiting  this  haunt  of  the  learned,  my  attention 
\vas  attracted  to  a  person  just  entering  the  room.  He  was  advanced 
in  life,  tall,  and  of  a  form  that  might  once  have  been  commanding, 
but  it  was  a  little  bowed  by  time — perhaps  by  care.  He  had  a 
noble  Roman  style  of  countenance ;  a  head  that  would  have 
pleased  a  painter ;  and  though  some  slight  furrows  on  his  brow 
showed  that  wasting  thought  had  been  busy  there,  yet  his  eye  stili 
beamed  with  the  fire  of  a  poetic  soul  There  was  something  In  bis 


4         %  V  ROSCOE.  19 

whole  appearance  that  indicated  a  being  of  a  different  ordei  from 
the  bustling  race  around  him. 

I  inquired  his  name,  and  was  informed  that  it  was  Roscoe.  I 
drew  back  with  involuntary  feeling  of  veneration.  This,  then,  was 
an  author  of  celebrity  ;  this  was  one  of  those  men  whose  voices 
have  gone  forth  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  ;  with  whose  minds  I  have 
communed  even  in  the  solitudes  of  America.  Accustomed,  as  we 
are  in  our  country,  to  know  European  writers  only  by  their  works, 
we  cannot  conceive  of  them,  as  of  other  men,  engrossed  by  trivial 
or  sordid  pursuits,  and  jostling  with  the  crowd  of  common  minds  in 
the  dusty  paths  of  life.  They  pass  before  our  imaginations  like 
superior  beings,  radiant  with  the  emanations  of  their  genius,  and 
surrounded  by  a  halo  of  literary  glory. 

To  find,  therefore,  the  elegant  historian  of  the  Medici  mingling 
among  the  busy  sons  of  traffic,  at  first  shocked  my  poetical  ideas; 
but  it  is  from  the  very  circumstances  and  situation  in  which  he  has 
been  placed,  that  Mr.  Roscoe  derives  his  highest  claims  to  admira 
tion.  It  is  interesting  to  notice  how  some  minds  seem  almost  to 
create  themselves,  springing  up  under  every  disadvantage,  and 
working  their  solitary  but  irresistible  way  through  a  thousand 
obstacles.  Nature  seems  to  delight  in  disappointing  the  assiduities 
of  art,  with  which  it  would  rear  legitimate  dulness  to  maturity ; 
and  to  glory  in  the  vigor  and  luxuriance  of  her  chance  produc 
tions.  She  scatters  the  seeds  of  genius  to  the  winds,  and  though 
some  may  perish  among  the  stony  places  of  the  world,  and  some 
be  choked  by  the  thorns  and  brambles  of  early  adversity,  ye/ 
others  will  now  and  then  strike  root  even  in  the  clefts  of  the  rock, 
struggle  bravely  up  into  sunshine,  and  spread  over  their  sterile 
birthplace  all  the  beauties  of  vegetation. 

Such  has  been  the  case  with  Mr.  Roscoe.  Born  in  a  place 
apparently  ungenial  to  the  growth  of  literary  talent ;  in  the  very 
market-place  of  trade  ;  without  fortune,  family  connections,  or  pat 
ronage  ;  self-prompted,  self-sustained,  and  almost  self-taught,  he 
has  conquered  every  obstacle,  acheived  his  way  to  eminence,  and, 
having  become  one  of  the  ornaments  of  the  nation,  has  turned  the 
whole  force  of  his  talents  and  influence  to  advance  and  embellish 
his  native  town. 

Indeed,  it  is  this  last  trait  in  his  character  which  has  given  him 
the  greatest  interest  in  my  eyes,  and  induced  me  particularly  to 
point  him  out  to  my  countrymen.  Eminent  as  are  his  literary 
merits,  he  is  but  one  among  the  many  distinguished  authors  of  this 
intellectual  nation.  They,  however,  in  general,  live  but  for  their 
own  fame,  or  their  own  pleasures.  Their  private  history  presents 


20  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

no  Itsson  to  the  world,  or,  perhaps,  a  humiliating  one  of  human 
frailty  and  inconsistency.  At  best,  they  are  prone  to  steal  away 
from  the  bustle  and  commonplace  of  busy  existence  ;  to  indulge  in 
the  selfishness  of  lettered  ease ;  and  to  revel  in  scenes  of  mental 
but  exclusive  enjoyment. 

Mr.  Roscoe,  on  the  contrary,  has  claimed  none  of  the  accorded 
privileges  of  talent.  He  has  shut  himself  up  in  no  garden  of 
thought,  nor  elysium  of  fancy  ;  but  has  gone  forth  into  the  high 
ways  and  thoroughfares  of  life  ;  he  has  planted  bowers  by  the  way 
side  for  the  refreshment  of  the  pilgrim  and  the  sojourner,  and  has 
opened  pure  fountains,  where  the  laboring  man  may  turn  aside 
from  the  dust  and  heat  of  the  day,  and  drink  of  the  living  streams 
of  knowledge.  There  is  a  "daily  beauty  in  his  life,"  on  which 
mankind  may  meditate  and  grow  better.  It  exhibits  no  lofty  and 
almost  useless,  because  inimitable,  example  of  excellence ;  but 
presents  a  picture  of  active,  yet  simple  and  imitable  virtues,  which 
are  within  every  man's  reach,  but  which,  unfortunately,  are  not 
exercised  by  many,  or  this  world  would  be  a  paradise. 

But  his  private  life  is  peculiarly  worthy  the  attention  of  the  citi 
zens  of  our  young  and  busy  country,  where  literature  and  the 
elegant  arts  must  grow  up  side  by  side  with  the  coarser  plants  of 
daily  necessity ;  and  must  depend  for  their  culture,  not  on  the 
exclusive  devotion  of  time  and  wealth,  nor  the  quickening  rays  of 
titled  patronage,  but  on  hours  and  seasons  snatched  from  the 
pursuit  of  worldly  interests,  by  intelligent  and  public-spirited 
individuals. 

He  has  shown  how  much  may  be  done  for  a  place  in  hours  of 
leisure  by  one  master  spirit,  and  how  completely  it  can  give  its  own 
impress  to  surrounding  objects.  Like  his  own  Lorenzo  De1  Medici, 
on  whom  he  seems  to  have  fixed  his  eye  as  on  a  pure  model  of 
antiquity,  he  has  interwoven  the  history  of  his  life  with  the  history 
of  his  native  town,  and  has  made  the  foundations  of  its  fame  the 
monuments  of  his  virtues.  Wherever  you  go  in  Liverpool,  you 
perceive  traces  of  his  footsteps  in  all  that  is  elegant  and  liberal. 
He  found  the  tide  of  wealth  flowing  merely  in  the  channels  of 
traffick;  he  has  diverted  from  it  invigorating  rills  to  refresh  the 
garden  of  literature.  By  his  own  example  and  constant  exertions 
he  has  effected  that  union  of  commerce  and  the  intellectual  pursuits, 
so  eloquently  recommended  in  one  of  his  latest  writings :  *  and  has 
practically  proved  how  beautifully  they  may  be  brought  to  har 
monize,  and  to  benefit  each  other.  The  noble  institutions  for 
literary  and  scientific  purposes,  which  reflect  such  credit  on  Liver- 
» 4ddi*M  on  the  opening  of  tiie  Liverpool  Institution.  ~ 


ROSCOE.  It 

pool,  and  are  giving  such  an  impulse  to  the  public  mind,  have 
mostly  been  originated,  and  have  all  been  effectively  promoted,  by 
Mr.  Roscoe  ;  and  when  we  consider  the  rapidly  increasing  opulence 
and  magnitude  of  that  town,  which  promises  to  vie  in  commercial 
importance  with  the  metropolis,  it  will  be  perceived  that  in  awak 
ening  an  ambition  of  mental  improvement  among  its  inhabitants, 
he  has  effected  a  great  benefit  to  the  cause  of  British  literature. 

In  America,  we  know  Mr.  Roscoe  only  as  the  author — in  Liver 
pool  he  is  spoken  of  as  the  banker ;  and  I  was  told  of  his  having 
been  unfortunate  in  business.  I  could  not  pity  him,  as  I  heard 
some  rich  men  do.  I  considered  him  far  above  the  reach  of  pity. 
Those  who  live  only  for  the  world,  and  in  the  world,  may  be  cast 
down  by  the  frowns  of  adversity ;  but  a  man  like  Roscoe  is  not  to 
be  overcome  by  the  reverses  of  fortune.  They  do  but  drive  him  in 
upon  the  resources  of  his  own  mind  ;  to  the  superior  society  of  his 
own  thoughts  ;  which  the  best  of  men  are  apt  sometimes  to  neglect, 
and  to  roam  abroad  in  search  of  less  worthy  associates.  He  is 
independent  of  the  world  around  him.  He  lives  with  antiquity  and 
posterity;  with  antiquity,  in  the  sweet  communion  of  studious  retire 
ment ;  and  with  posterity,  in  the  generous  aspirings  after  future 
renown.  The  solitude  of  such  a  mind  is  its  state  of  highest  enjoy 
ment.  It  is  then  visited  by  those  elevated  meditations  which  are 
the  proper  aliment  of  noble  souls,  and  are,  like  manna,  sent  from 
heaven,  in  the  wilderness  of  this  world. 

While  my  feelings  were  yet  alive  on  the  subject,  it  was  my  for  • 
tune  to  light  on  further  traces  of  Mr.  Roscoe.  I  was  riding  out 
with  a  gentleman,  to  view  the  environs  of  Liverpool,  when  he 
turned  off,  through  a  gate,  into  some  ornamented  grounds.  After 
riding  a  short  distance,  we  came  to  a  spacious  mansion  of  freestone, 
built  in  the  Grecian  style.  It  was  not  in  the  purest  taste,  yet  it  had 
an  air  of  elegance,  and  the  situation  was  delightful.  A  fine  lawn 
sloped  away  from  it,  studded  with  clumps  of  trees,  so  di  posed  as 
to  break  a  soft,  fertile  country  into  a  variety  of  landscapes.  The 
Mersey  was  seen  winding  a  broad,  quiet  sheet  of  water  through 
an  expanse  of  green  meadow-land ;  while  the  Welsh  moun 
tains,  blended  with  clouds,  and  melting  into  distance,  bordered  the 
horizon. 

This  was  Roscoe' s  favorite  residence  during  the  days  of  his 
prosperity.  It  had  been  the  seat  of  elegant  hospitality  and  literary 
retirement.  The  house  was  now  silent  and  deserted.  I  saw  the 
windows  of  the  study,  which  looked  out  upon  the  soft  scenery  I  have 
mentioned.  The  windows  were  closed — the  library  was  gone. 
Two  or  three  ill-favored  beings  were  loitering  about  the  place. 


3*  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

whom  my  fancy  pictured  into  retainers  of  the  law.  It  was  like  visit 
ing  some  classic  fountain,  that  had  once  welled  its  pure  waters  in 
a  sacred  shade,  but  finding  it  dry  and  dusty,  with  the  lizard  and 
the  toad  brooding  over  the  shattered  marbles. 

I  inquired  after  the  fate  of  Mr.  Roscoe's  library,  which  had  con 
sisted  of  scarce  and  foreign  books,  from  many  of  which  he  had 
drawn  the  materials  for  his  Italian  histories ;  it  had  passed  under 
the  hammer  of  the  auctioneer,  and  was  dispersed  about  the  country. 
The  good  people  of  the  vicinity  thronged  like  wreckers  to  get  some 
part  of  the  noble  vessel  that  had  been  driven  on  shore.  Did  such 
a  scene  admit  of  ludicrous  associations,  we  might  imagine  some 
thing  whimsical  in  this  strange  irruption  in  the  regions  of  learning. 
Pigmies  rummaging  the  armory  of  a  giant,  and  contending  for  the 
possession  of  weapons  which  they  could  not  wield.  We  might 
picture  to  ourselves  some  knot  of  speculators,  debating  with  cal 
culating  brow  over  the  quaint  binding  and  illuminated  margin  of  an 
obsolete  author ;  of  the  air  of  intense,  but  baffled  sagacity,  with 
which  some  successful  purchaser  attempted  to  dive  into  the 
black-letter  bargain  he  had  secured. 

It  is  a  beautiful  incident  in  the  story  of  Mr.  Roscoe's  misfortunes, 
and  one  which  cannot  fail  to  interest  the  studious  mind,  that  the 
parting  with  his  books  seems  to  have  touched  upon  his  tenderest 
feelings,  and  to  have  been  the  only  circumstance  that  could  pro 
voke  the  notice  of  his  muse.  The  scholar  only  knows  how  dear 
these  silent,  yet  eloquent,  companions  of  pure  thoughts  and  inno 
cent  hours  become  in  the  seasons  of  adversity.  When  all  that  is 
worldly  turns  to  dross  around  us,  these  only  retain  their  steady 
value.  When  friends  grow  cold,  and  the  converse  of  intimates 
languishes  into  vapid  civility  and  commonplace,  these  only  con 
tinue  the  unaltered  countenance  of  happier  days,  and  cheer  us 
with  that  true  friendship  which  never  deceived  hope  nor  deserted 
sorrow. 

I  do  not  wish  to  censure  ;  but,  surely,  if  the  people  of  Liverpool 
had  been  properly  sensible  of  what  was  due  to  Mr.  Roscoe  and 
themselves,  his  library  would  never  have  been  sold.  Good  worldly 
reasons  may,  doubtless,  be  given  for  the  circumstance,  which  it 
would  be  difficult  to  combat  with  others  that  might  seem  merely 
fanciful ;  but  it  certainly  appears  to  me  such  an  opportunity  as  sel 
dom  occurs,  of  cheering  a  noble  mind  struggling  under  misfortunes, 
by  one  of  the  most  delicate,  but  most  expressive  tokens  of  public 
sympathy.  It  is  difficult,  however,  to  estimate  a  man  of  genius 
properly  who  is  daily  before  our  eyes.  He  becomes  mingled  and 
confounded  with  other  men.  His  great  qualities  lose  their  novelty, 


ROSCOE.  *3 

we  become  too  familiar  with  the  common  materials  which  form  ihe 
basis  even  of  the  loftiest  character.  Some  of  Mr.  Roscoe's  towns 
men  may  regard  him  merely  as  a  man  of  business ;  others  as  a 
politician;  all  find  him  engaged  like  themselves  in  ordinary  occupa 
tions,  and  surpassed,  perhaps,  by  themselves  on  some  points  of 
worldly  wisdom.  Even  that  amiable  and  unostentatious  simplicity 
of  character,  which  gives  the  nameless  grace  to  real  excellence, 
may  cause  him  to  be  undervalued  by  some  coarse  minds,  who  do 
not  know  that  true  worth  is  always  void  of  glare  and  pretension. 
But  the  man  of  letters,  who  speaks  of  Liverpool,  speaks  of  it  as 
the  residence  of  Roscoe.  The  intelligent  traveller  who  visits  it 
inquires  where  Roscoe  is  to  be  seen.  He  is  the  literary  landmark 
of  the  place,  indicating  its  existence  to  the  distant  scholar.  He 
is,  like  Pompey's  column  at  Alexandria,  towering  alone  in  classic 
dignity. 

The  following  sonnet,  addressed  by  Mr.  Roscoe  to  his  books  on 
parting  with  them,  is  alluded  to  in  the  preceding  article.  It  any 
thing  can  add  effect  to  the  pure  feeling  and  elevated  thought  here 
displayed,  it  is  the  conviction  that  the  whole  is  no  effusion  of  fancy 
but  a  faithful  transcript  from  the  writer's  heart. 

TO  MY  BOOKS. 

As  one  who,  destined  from  his  friends  to  part, 
Regrets  his  loss,  but  hopes  again  erewhile 
To  share  their  converse  and  enjoy  their  smile, 

And  tempers  as  he  may  affliction's  dart ; 

Thus,  loved  associates,  chiefs  of  elder  art, 

Teachers  of  wisdom,  who  could  once  beguile 
My  tedious  hours,  and  lighten  every  toil, 

I  now  resign  you  ;  nor  with  fainting  heart ; 

For  pass  a  few  short  years,  or  days,  or  hours, 

And  happier  seasons  may  their  down  unfold. 

And  all  your  sacred  fellowship  restore : 
When,  freed  from  earth,  unlimited  its  powers, 

Mind  shall  with  mind  direct  communion  hold, 
And  kindred  spirits  meet  to  part  no  more. 


THE  WIFE. 

1  The  treasures  of  the  deep  are  not  so  precious 
As  are  the  eonceal'd  comforts  of  a  man 
Locked  up  in  woman's  love.   I  scent  the  air 
Of  blessings,  when  I  come  hut  near  the  house. 
What  a  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth  ?. 
The  violet  bed's  not  sweeter. 

MlDDLBTON. 

I  HAVE  often  had  occasion  to  remark  the  fortitude  with  which 
women  sustain  the  most  overwhelming  reverses  of  fortune. 
Those  disasters  which  break  down  the  spirit  of  a  man,  and  pros 
trate  him  in  the  dust,  seem  to  call  forth  all  the  energies  of  the  softer 
sex,  and  give  such  intrepidity  and  elevation  to  their  character,  that 
at  times  it  approaches  to  sublimity.  Nothing  can  be  more  touch 
ing  than  to  behold  a  soft  and  tender  female,  who  had  been  all 
weakness  and  dependence,  and  alive  to  every  trivial  roughness, 
while  treading  the  prosperous  paths  of  life,  suddenly  rising  in 
mental  force  to  be  the  comforter  and  support  of  her  husband  under 
misfortune,  and  abiding,  with  unshrinking  firmness,  the  bitterest 
blasts  of  adversity. 

As  the  vine,  which  has  long  twined  its  graceful  foliage  about  the 
oak,  and  been  lifted  by  it  into  sunshine,  will,  when  the  hardy  plant 
is  lifted  by  the  thunderbolt,  cling  round  it  with  its  caressing  tendrils, 
and  bind  up  its  shattered  boughs ;  so  is  it  beautifully  ordered  by 
Providence,  that  woman,  who  is  the  mere  dependent  and  ornament 
of  man  in  his  happier  hours,  should  be  his  stay  and  solace  when 
smitten  with  sudden  calamity ;  winding  herself  into  the  rugged 
recesses  of  his  nature,  tenderly  supporting  the  drooping  head,  and 
binding  up  the  broken  heart. 

I  was  once  congratulating  a  friend,  who  had  around  him  a 
blooming  family,  knit  together  in  the  strongest  affection.  "  I  can 
wish  you  no  better  lot,"  said  he,  with  enthusiasm,  "  than  to  have  a 
wife  and  children.  If  you  are  prosperous,  there  they  are  to  share 
your  prosperity  ;  if  otherwise,  there  they  are  to  comfort  you."  And, 
indeed,  I  have  observed  that  a  married  man  falling  into  misfortune 
is  more  apt  to  retrieve  his  situation  in  the  world  than  a  single  one  ; 
partly  because  he  is  more  stimulated  to  exertion  by  the  necessities 
of  the  helpless  and  beloved  beings  who  depend  upon  him  for  sub 
sistence  ;  but  chiefly  because  his  spirits  are  soothed  and  relieved 
by  domestic  endearments,  and  his  self-respect  kept  alive  by  find 
ing,  that  though  all  abroad  is  darkness  and  humiliation,  yet  there 
is  still  a  little  world  of  love  at  home,  of  which  he  is  the  monarch 
Whereas  a  single  man  is  apt  to  run  to  waste  and  self-neglect ;  tn 


TtiE  WIF&  2$ 

fancy  himself  lonely  and  abandoned,  and  his  heart  to  fall  to  rain 
like  some  deserted  mansion,  for  want  of  an  inhabitant. 

These  observations  call  to  mind  a  little  domestic  story,  of  which 
I  was  once  a  witness.  My  intimate  friend,  Leslie,  had  married  a 
beautiful  and  accomplished  girl,  who  had  been  brought  up  in  the 
midst  of  fashionable  life.  She  had,  it  is  true,  no  fortune,  but  that 
of  my  friend  was  ample ;  and  he  delighted  in  the  anticipation  of 
indulging  her  in  every  elegant  pursuit,  and  administering  to  those 
delicate  tastes  and  fancies  that  spread  a  kind  of  witchery  about  the 
sex. — "  Her  life,"  said  he,  "  shall  be  like  a  fairy  tale." 

The  very  difference  in  their  characters  produced  an  harmonious 
combination :  he  was  of  a  romantic  and  somewhat  serious  cast ; 
she  was  all  life  and  gladness.  I  have  often  noticed  the  mute  rap 
ture  with  which  he  would  gaze  upon  her  in  company,  of  which  her 
sprightly  powers  made  her  the  delight ;  and  how,  in  the  midst  of 
applause,  her  eye  would  still  turn  to  him,  as  if  there  alone  she 
sought  favor  and  acceptance.  When  leaning  on  his  arm,  her 
slender  form  contrasted  finely  with  his  tall,  manly  person.  The 
fond,  confiding  air  with  which  she  looked  up  to  him  seemed  to  call 
forth  a  flush  of  triumphant  pride  and  cherishing  tenderness,  as  if  he 
doted  on  his  lovely  burden  for  its  very  helplessness.  Never  did  a 
couple  set  forward  on  the  flowery  path  of  early  and  well-suited 
marriage  with  a  fairer  prospect  of  felicity. 

It  was  the  misfortune  of  my  friend,  however,  to  have  embarked 
his  property  in  large  speculations ;  and  he  had  not  been  married 
many  months,  when,  by  a  succession  of  sudden  disasters,  it  was 
swept  from  him,  and  he  found  himself  reduced  almost  to  penury. 
For  a  time  he  kept  his  situation  to  himself,  and  went  about  with  a 
haggard  countenance,  and  a  breaking  heart.  His  life  was  but  a 
protracted  agony ;  and  what  rendered  it  more  insupportable  was 
the  necessity  of  keeping  up  a  smile  in  the  presence  of  his  wife ;  for 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  overwhelm  her  with  the  news.  She 
saw,  however,  with  the  quick  eyes  of  affection,  that  all  was  not  well 
with  him.  She  marked  his  altered  looks  and. stifled  sighs,  and  was 
not  to  be  deceived  by  his  sickly  and  vapid  attempts  at  cheerful 
ness.  She  tasked  all  her  sprightly  powers  and  tender  blandish 
ments  to  win  him  back  to  happiness  ;  but  she  only  drove  the  arrow 
deeper  into  his  soul.  The  more  he  saw  cause  to  love  her,  the  more 
torturing  was  the  thought  that  he  was  soon  to  make  her  wretched. 
A  little  while,  thought  he,  and  the  smile  will  vanish  from  that 
cheek — the  song  will  die  away  from  those  lips — the  lustre  of  those 
eyes  will  be  quenched  with  sorrow ;  and  the  happy  heart,  which 
now  beats  lightly  in  that  bosom,  will  be  weighed  down  like  mine, 
by  the  cares  and  miseries  of  the  world. 


fi6  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

At  length  ne  came  to  me  one  day,  and  related  his  whole  situation 
in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  despair.  When  I  heard  him  through  I 
inquired,  "  Does  your  wife  know  all  this  ?  "— At  the  question  he  burst 
into  an  agony  of  tears.  "For  God's  sake!"  cried  he,  "  if  you 
have  any  pity  on  me,  don't  mention  my  wife  ;  it  is  the  thought  of 
her  that  drives  me  almost  to  madness !  " 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  said  I.  "  She  must  know  it  sooner  or  later : 
you  cannot  keep  it  long  from  her,  and  the  intelligence  may  break  upon 
her  in  a  more  startling  manner  than  if  imparted  by  yourself;  for  the 
accents  of  those  we  love  soften  the  harshest  tidings.  Besides,  you  are 
depriving  yourself  of  the  comforts  of  her  sympathy;  and  not  merely 
that,  but  also  endangering  the  only  bond  that  can  keep  hearts  together 
— an  unreserved  community  of  thought  and  feeling.  She  will  soon 
perceive  that  something  is  secretly  preying  upon  your  mind ;  and  true 
love  will  not  brook  reserve ;  it  feels  under-valued  and  outraged, 
when  even  the  sorrows  of  those  it  loves  are  concealed  from  it. ' ' 

"  Oh,  but,  my  friend!  to  think  what  a  blow  I  am  to  give  to  all 
her  future  prospects— how  I  am  to  strike  her  very  soul  to  the  earth, 
by  telling  her  that  her  husband  is  a  beggar !  that  she  is  to  forego 
the  elegancies  of  life— all  the  pleasures  of  society— to  shrinl-  with 
me  into  indigence  and  obscurity !  To  tell  her  that  I  have  dragged 
her  down  from  the  sphere  in  which  she  might  have  continued  to 
move  in  constant  brightness— the  light  of  every  eye— the  admira 
tion  of  every  heart !— How  can  she  bear  poverty  ?  she  has  been 
brought  up  in  all  the  refinements  of  opulence.  How  can  she  bear 
neglect  ?  she  has  been  the  idol  of  society.  Oh  !  it  will  break  her 
heart — it  will  break  her  heart! " 

I  saw  his  grief  was  eloquent,  and  I  let  it  have  its  flow  ;  for  sor 
row  relieves  itself  by  words.  When  his  paroxysm  had  subsided, 
and  he  had  relapsed  into  moody  silence,  I  resumed  the  subject  gently 
and  urged  him  to  break  his  situation  at  once  to  his  wife.  He  shook 
his  head  mournfully,  but  positively. 

"But  how  are  you  to  keep  it  from  her?  It  is  necessary  she 
should  know  it,  that  you  may  take  the  steps  proper  to  the  alteration 
of  your  circumstances.  You  must  change  your  style  of  living — 
nay,"  observing  a  pang  to  pass  across  his  countenance  ,  "  don't  let 
that  afflict  you.  I  am  sure  you  have  never  placed  your  happiness  in 
outward  show — you  have  yet  friends,  warm  friends,  who  will  not 
think  the  worsteofyou  for  being  less  splendidly  lodged:  and  surely 
it  does  not  require  a  palace  to  be  happy  with  Mary " 

"I  could  be  happy  with  her,"  cried  he,  convulsively,  "in  a  hovel! 
— I  could  go  down  with  her  into  poverty  and  the  dust! — I  could — 
I  could — God  bless  her ! — God  bless  her  !  "  cried  he,  bursting  into 
a  transport  of  grief  and  tenderness. 


TH£  WIFE.  27 

"And  believe  me,  my  friend,"  said  I,  stepping  up  and  grasping 
him  warmly  by  the  hand,  "believe  me,  she  cati  be  the  same  with 
you.  Ay,  more :  it  will  be  a  source  of  pride  and  triumph  to  her — 
it  will  call  forth  all  the  latent  energies  and  fervent  sympathies  of 
her  nature ;  for  she  will  rejoice  to  prove  that  she  loves  you  for 
yourself.  There  is  in  every  true  woman's  heart  a  spark  of  heavenly 
fire,  which  lies  dormant  in  the  broad  daylight  of  prosperity  ;  but 
which  kindles  up,  and  beams  and  blazes  in  the  dark  hour  of 
adversity.  No  man  knows  what  the  wife  of  his  bosom  is — no  man 
knows  what  a  ministering  angel  she  is — until  he  has  gone  with  her 
through  the  fiery  trials  of  this  world." 

There  was  something  in  the  earnestness  of  my  manner,  and  the 
figurative  style  of  my  language,  that  caught  the  excited  imagination 
of  Leslie.  I  knew  the  auditor  I  had  to  deal  with ;  and  following 
up  the  impression  I  had  made,  I  finished  by  persuading  him  to  go 
home  and  unburden  his  sad  heart  to  his  wife. 

I  must  confess,  notwithstanding  all  I  had.said,  I  felt  some  little 
solicitude  for  the  result.  Who  can  calculate  on  the  fortitude  of  one 
whose  life  has  been  a  round  of  pleasures?  Her  gay  spirits  might 
revolt  at  the  dark,  downward  path  of  low  humility  suddenly  pointed 
out  before  her,  and  might  cling  to  the  sunny  regions  in  which  they 
had  hitherto  revelled.  Besides,  ruin  in  fashionable  life  is  accom 
panied  by  so  many  galling  mortifications,  to  which  in  other  ranks  it 
is  a  stranger. — In  short,  I  could  not  meet  Leslie  the  next,  morning 
without  trepidation.  He  had  made  the  disclosure. 

"And  how  did  she  bear  it?  " 

"Like  an  arrf  el !  It  seemed  rather  to  be  a  relief  to  her  mind, 
for  she  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  asked  if  this  was  all 
that  had  lately  made  me  unhappy. — But,  poor  girl,"  added  he, 
"she  cannot  realize  the  change  we  must  undergo.  She  has  no 
idea  of  poverty  but  in  the  abstract ;  she  has  only  read  of  it  in 
poetry,  where  it  is  allied  to  love.  She  feels  as  yet  no  privation; 
she  suffers  no  less  of  accustomed  conveniencies  nor  elegancies. 
When  we  come  practically  to  experience  its  sordid  cares,  its  paltry 
wants,  its  petty  humiliations — then  will  be  the  real  trial." 

"But,"  said  I,  "now  that  you  have  got  over  the  severest  task, 
that  of  breaking  it  to  her,  the  sooner  you  let  the  world  into  the 
secret  the  better.  The  disclosure  may  be  mortifying  ;  but  then  it 
is  a  single  misery,  and  soon  over :  whereas  you  otherwise  suffer  it, 
in  anticipation,  every  hour  in  the  day.  It  is  not  poverty  so  muck 
as  pretence,  that  harasses  a  ruined  man — the  struggle  between  a 
proud  mind  and  an  empty  purse — the  keeping  up  a  hollow  show 
that  must  soon  come  to  an  end,  Have  the  courage  to  appear  poor 


2*  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and  you  disarm  poverty  of  its  sharpest  sting."  On  this  point  1 
found  Leslie  perfectly  prepared.  He  had  no  false  pride  himself, 
and  as  to  his  wife,  she  was  only  anxious  to  conform  to  their  altered 
fortunes. 

Some  days  afterwards  he  called  upon  me  in  the  evening.  He 
had  disposed  of  his  dwelling  house,  and  taken  a  small  cottage  in 
the  country,  a  few  miles  from  town.  He  had  been  busied  all  day 
in  sending  out  furniture.  The  new  establishment  required  few 
articles,  and  those  of  the  simplest  kind.  All  the  splendid  furniture 
of  his  late  residence  had  been  sold,  excepting  his  wife's  harp. 
That,  he  said,  was  too  closely  associated  with  the  idea  of  herself ; 
it  belonged  to  the  little  story  of  their  loves ;  for  some  of  the  sweetest 
moments  of  their  courtship  were  those  when  he  had  leaned  over 
that  instrument,  and  listened  to  the  melting  tones  of  her  voice.  I 
could  not  but  smile  at  this  instance  of  romantic  gallantry  in  a  dot 
ing  husband. 

He  was  now  going  out  to  the  cottage,  where  his  wife  had  been 
all  day  superintending  its  arrangement.  My  feelings  had  become 
strongly  interested  in  the  progress  of  this  family  story,  and,  as  it 
was  a  fine  evening,  I  offered  to  accompany  him. 

He  was  wearied  with  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  and,  as  he  walked 
out,  fell  into  a  fit  of  gloomy  musing. 

44  Poor  Mary  !  "  at  length  broke,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  from  his  lips. 

44 And  what  of  her?"  asked  I:  "has  anything  happened  to 
her?" 

44  What,"  said  he,  darting  an  impatient  glance,  "  is  it  nothing  to 
be  reduced  to  this  paltry  situation — to  be  caged  in  a  miserable 
cottage — to  be  obliged  to  toil  almost  in  the  menial  concerns  of  her 
wretched  habitation  ?  " 

44  Has  she,  then,  repined  at  the  change?" 

4<  Repined!  she  has  been  nothing  but  sweetness  and  good  humor. 
Indeed,  she  seems  in  better  spirits  than  I  have  ever  known  her; 
she  has  been  to  me  all  love,  and  tenderness,  and  comfort!  " 

" Admirable  girl!"  exclaimed  I.  "You  call  yourself  poor,  my 
friend  ;  you  never  were  so  rich — you  never  knew  the  boundless 
treasures  of  excellence  you  possess  in  that  woman." 

4 'Oh!  but,  my  friend,  if  this  first  meeting  at  the  cottage  were 
over,  I  think  I  could  then  be  comfortable.  But  this  is  her  first  day 
of  real  experience  ;  she  has  been  introduced  into  a  humble  dwell 
ing — she  has  been  employed  all  day  in  arranging  its  miserable 
equipments — she  has,  for  the  first  time,  known  the  fatigues  of 
domestic  employment — she  has,  for  the  first  time,  looked  round  her 
on  a  home  destitute  of  every  thing  elegant, — almost  of  every  thing 


THE  WIFE.  29 

convenient ;  and  may  now  be  sitting  down,  exhausted  and  spiritless, 
brooding  over  a  prospect  of  future  poverty." 

There  was  a  degree  of  probability  in  this  picture  that  I  could  not 
gainsay,  so  we  walked  on  in  silence. 

After  turning  from  the  main  road  up  a  narrow  lane,  so  thickly 
shaded  with  forest  trees  as  to  give  it  a  complete  air  of  seclusion,  v.o 
came  in  sight  of  the  cottage.  It  was  humble  enough  in  its  appear 
ance  for  the  most  pastoral  poet ;  and  yet  it  had  a  pleasing  rural 
look.  A  wild  vine  had  overrun  one  end  with  a  profusion  of  foliage 
a  few  Jrees  threw  their  branches  gracefully  over  it;  and  I  observed 
several  pots  of  flowers  tastefully  disposed  about  the  door,  and  on 
the  grass-plot  in  front.  A  small  wicket  gate  opened  upon  a  foot-path 
that  wound  through  some  shrubbery  to  the  door.  Just  as  we  ap 
proached,  we  heard  the  sound  of  music — Leslie  grasped  my  arm; 
we  paused  and  listened.  It  was  Mary's  voice  singing,  in  a  style 
of  the  most  touching  simplicity,  a  little  air  of  which  her  husband 
was  peculiarly  fond. 

1  felt  Leslie's  hand  tremble  on  my  arm.  He  stepped  forward  to 
hear  more  distinctly.  His  step  made  a  noise  on  the  gravel  walk. 
&  bright,  beautiful  face  glanced  out  at  the  window  and  vanished — 
i  light  footstep  was  heard — and  Mary  came  tripping  forth  to  meet 
us :  she  was  in  a  pretty,  rural  dress  of  white ;  a  few  wild  flowers 
were  twisted  in  her  fine  hair ;  a  fresh  bloom  was  on  her  cheek; 
her  whole  countenance  beamed  with  smiles — I  had  never  seen  her 
look  so  lovely. 

"My  dear  George/'  cried  she,  "I  am  so  glad  you  are  come! 
I  have  been  watching  and  watching  for  you;  and  running  down 
the  lane,  and  looking  out  for  you.  I've  set  out  a  table  under  a 
beautiful  tree  behind  the  cottage;  and  I've  been  gathering  some 
of  the  most  delicious  strawberries,  for  I  know  you  are  fond  of  them 
— and  we  have  such  excellent  cream — and  everything  is  so  sweet 
and  still  here — Oh!"  said  she,  putting  her  arm  within  his,  and 
looking  up  brightly  in  his  face,  "Oh,  we  shall  be  so  happy!" 

Poor  Leslie  was  overcome.  He  caught  her  to  his  bosom — he 
folded  his  arms  round  her — he  kissed  her  again  and  again — he 
could  not  speak,  but  the  tears  gushed  into  his  eyes  ;  and  he  has 
often  assured  me,  that  though  the  world  has  since  gone  prosper 
ously  with  him,  and  his  life  has,  indeed,  been  a  happy  one,  yet 
never  has  he  experienced  a  moment  oi  more  exquisite  felicity. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE. 

A  POSTHUMOUS   WRITING   OF   DIEDRICH   KNICKERBOCKER. 

By  Woden,  God  of  Saxons, 

From  \yhence  comes  Wensday,  that  is  Wodensday. 

Truth  is  a  thing  that  ever  I  will  keep 

Unto  thylke  clay  in  which  I  creep  into 

My  sepulchre 

CARTWRIGHT. 

[The  following  Tale  was  found  among  the  papers  of  the  late 
Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  an  old  gentleman  of  New  York,  who  was 
very  curious  in  the  Dutch  history  of  the  province,  and  the  manners 
of  the  descendants  from  its  primitive  settlers.  His  historical 
researches,  however,  did  not  lie  so  much  among  books  as  among 
men;  for  the  former  are  lamentably  scanty  on  his  favorite  topics; 
whereas  he  found  the  old  burghers,  and  still  more  their  wives,  rich 
in  that  legendary  lore,  so  invaluable  to  true  history.  Whenever, 
therefore,  he  happened  upon  a  genuine  Dutch  family,  snugly  shu\ 
up  in  its  low-roofed  farmhouse,  under  a  spreading  sycamore,  he 
upon  it  as  a  little  clasped  volume  of  black-letter,  and  studied 
the  zeal  of  a  bookavoim. 

The  resuTtrt>f  all  these  researches  was  a  history  of  the  province 
during  the  reign  of  the  Dutch  governors,  which  he  published  some 
years  since.  There  have  been  various  opinions  as  to  the  literary 
character  of  his  work,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  is  not  a  whit  better 
than  it  should  be.  Its  chief  merit  is  its  scrupulous  accuracy,  which, 
indeed,  was  a  little  questioned  on  its  first  appearance,  but  has  since 
been  completely  established;  and  it  is  now  admitted  into  all  his 
torical  collections,  as  a  book  of  unquestionable  authority. 

The  old  gentleman  died  shortly  after  the  publication  of  his  work, 
and  now  that  he  is  dead  and  gone,  it  cannot  do  much  harm  to  his 
memory  to  say  that  his  time  might  have  been  much  better  employed 
in  weightier  labors.  He,  however,  was  apt  to  ride  his  hobby  his 
own  way ;  and  though  it  did  now  and  then  kick  up  the  dust  a  little 
in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbors,  and  grieve  the  spirit  of  some  friends, 
for  whom  he  felt  the  truest  deference  and  affection;  yet  his  errors 
and  follies  are  remembered  "more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,"  and 
it  begins  to  be  suspected,  that  he  never  intended  to  injure  or 
offend.  But,  however  his  memory  may  be  appreciated  by  critics, 
it  is  still  held  dear  by  many  folk,  whose  good  opinion  is  well  worth 
having;  particularly  by  certain  biscuit-bakers,  who  have  gone  so 
far  as  to  imprint  his  likeness  on  their  new-year  cakes ;  and  have 
thus  given  him  a  chance  for  immortality,  almost  equal  to  the  being 
stamped  on  a  Waterloo  Medal,  or  a  (^ueen  Anne's  farthing.] 


KIP  VAN  WINKLE.  31 

WHOEVER  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson  must  remem 
ber  the  Kaatskill  mountains.  They  are  a  dismembered 
branch  of  the  great  Appalachin  family,  and  are  seen  away 
to  the  west  of  the  river,  swelling  up  to  a  noble  height,  and  lording 
it  over  the  surrounding  country.  Every  change  of  season,  every 
change  of  weather,  indeed,  every  hour  of  the  day,  produces  some 
change  in  the  magical  hues  and  shapes  of  these  mountains,  and 
they  are  regarded  by  all  the  good  wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect 
baronteters.  When  the  weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they  are 
clothed  in  blue  and  purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the 
clear  evening  sky;  but,  sometimes,  when  the  rest  of  the  landscape 
is  cloudless,  they  will  gather  a  hood  of  gray  vapors  about  their 
summits,  which,  in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  will  glow  and 
light  up  like  a  crown  of  glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the  voyager  may  have  des 
cried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a  village,  whose  shingle-roofs 
gleam  among  the  trees,  just  where  the  blue  tints  of  the  upland 
melt  away  into  the  fresh  green  of  the  nearer  landscape.  It  is  a 
little  village,  of  great  antiquity,  having  been  founded  by  some  of 
the  Dutch  colonists,  in  the  early  times  of  the  province,  just  about  the 
beginning  of  the  government  of  the  good  Peter  Stuyvesant, 
(may  he  rest  in  peace!),  and  there  were  some  of  the  houses  of  the 
original  settlers  standing  within  a  few  years,  built  of  small,  yellow 
bricks  brought  from  Holland,  having  latticed  windows  and  gable 
fronts,  surmounted  with  weather-cocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses  (which,  to 
tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn  and  weather-beaten), 
there  lived  many  years  since,  while  the  country  was  yet  a  province 
of  Great  Britain,  a  simple,  good-natured  fellow,  of  the  name  of  Rip 
Van  Winkle.  He  was  a  ^ie^cenda^t  of  the  Van  Winkles  who 
figured  so  gallantly  in  the  clnvalrous  days  of  Peter  Stuyvesant, 
and  accompanied  him  to  the  siege  of  Fort  Christina.  He  inherited, 
however,  but  little  of  the  martial  character  of  his  ancestors.  I 
have  observed  that  he  was  a  simple,  good-natured  man;  he  was, 
moreover,  a  kind  neighbor,  and  an  obedient,  hen-pecked  husband. 
Indeed,  to  the  latter  circumstance  might  be  owing  that  meekness 
of  spirit  which  gained  him  such  universal  popularity;  for  those  men 
are  most  apt  to  be  obsemrious  and  concilhiting  abroad,  who  are  un 
der  the  discipline  of  shrSws  at  home.  Their  tempers,  doubtless,  are 
rendered  pliant  and  malleable  in  the  fiery  furnace  of  domestic 
tribulation;  and  a  curtain  lecture  is  worth  all  the  sermons  in  the 
worleLfor  teaching  the  virtues  of  patience  and  long-suffering.  A 
termagant  wife  may,  therefore,  in  some  respects,  be  considered  a 
-toteraDle" blessing;  and  if  so,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  thrice  blessed. 


32  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favorite  among  all  the  good 
wives  of  the  village,  who,  as  usual  with  the  aml&ble  sex,  took  his 
part  in  all  family  squabbles ;  and  never  failed,  whenever  they 
talked  those  matters  over  in  their  evening  gossipings,  to  lay  all  the 
blame  on  Dame  Van  Winkle.  The  children  of  the  village,  too, 
would  shout  with  joy  whenever  he  approached.  He  assisted  at 
their  sports,  made  their  playthings,  taught  them  to  fly  kites  and 
shoot  marbles,  and  told  them  long  stories  of  ghosts,  witches,  and 
p  Q  Indians.  Whenever  he  went  dodging  about  the  village,  he  was 
*  '  surrounded  by  a  troop  of  them,  hanging  on  his  skirts,  clamobring 
on  his  back,  and  playing  a  thousand  tricks  on  him  with  impunity ; 
and  not  a  dog  would  bark  at  him  throughout  the  neighborhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an  insuperable  aversion 
^  to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labor.  It  could  not  be  from  the  want  of 
assiduity  or  perseverance;  for  he  would  sit  on  a  wet  rock,  with  * 
rod  as  long  and  heavy  as  a  Tartar's  lance,  and  fish  all  day  with 
out  a  murmur,  even  though  he  should  not  be  encouraged  by  a 
single  nibble.  He  would  carry  a  fowling-^aece  on  his  shoulder  for 
hours  together,  trudging  through  woods  and  swamps,  and  up  hill 
and  down  dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild  pigeons.  He  would 
never  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor  even  in  the  roughest  toil,  and  was 
a  foremost  man  at  all  country  frolics  for  husking  Indian  corn,  or 
building  stone-fences ;  the  women  of  the  village,  too,  used  to 
employ  him  to  run  their  errands,  and  to  do  such  little  odd  jobs  as 
their  less  obliging  husbands  would  not  do  for  them.  In  a  word, 
Rip  was  ready  to  attend  to  anybody's  business  but  his  own  ;  but  as 
io  doing  family  duty,  and  keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he  found  it 
impossible. 

In  fact,  he  Declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on  his  farm ;  it  was 
the  most  pestHfent  little  piece  of  ground  in  the  whole  country ; 
^everything  about  it  went  wrong,  and  would 'go  wrong,  in  spite  of 
^/him.  His  fences  were  continually  falling  to  pieces  ;  his  cow  would 
e4ther  go  astXy,  or  get  among  the  cabbages ;  weeds  were  sure  to 
grow  quicker  in  his  fields  than  anywhere  else ;  the  rain  always 
made  a  point  of  setting  in  just  as  he  had  some  out-door  work  to  do  ; 
so  that  though  his  patrimonial  estate  had  dwindled  away  under  his 
management,  acre  by  acre,  until  there  was  little  more  left  than  a 
mere  patch  of  Indian  corn  and  potatoes,  yet  it  was  the  worst  con 
ditioned  farm  in  the  neighborhood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if  they  belonged 
to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin  begotten  in  his  own  likeness, 
promised  to  inherit  the  habits  with  the  old  clothes  of  his  father. 
He  was  generally  seen  trooping  like  a  colt  at  his  mother's  heete. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  33 

(•quipped  in  a  pair  of  his  father's  cast-off  galligaskins,  which  he 
had  much  ado  to  hold  up  with  one  hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does  her 
train  in  bad  weather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy  mortals,  of 
foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions,  who  take  the  world  easy,  eat  white 
~~bT€3tror  brown,  whichever  can  be  got  with  least  thought  or  trouble, 
and  would  rather  starve  on  a  permy  than  work  for  a  pound.  If 
left  to  himself,  he  would  have  whistled  life  away  in  perfect  con 
tentment  ;  but  his  wife  kept  continually  dinbing  in  his  ears  about 
his  idleness,  his  carelessness,  and  the  ruin  he  was  bringing  ^pn  his 
family.  Morning,  noon,  and  night,  her  tongue  was  incessantly 
going,  and  everything  he  said  or  did  was  sure  to  produce  a  torrent 
of  household  eloquence.  Rip  had  but  one  way  of  replying  to  all 
lectures  of  the  kind,  and  that,  by  frequent  use,  had  grown  into  a 
habit.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook  his  head,  cast  up  his 
eyes,  but  said  nothing.  This,  however^  always  provoked  a  fresh 
vclle\  from  his  wife ;  so  that  he  was  fa\i  to  draw  off  his  forces, 
and  take  to  the  outside  of  the  house — the  only  side  which,  in  truth, 
belongs  to  a  hen-pecked  husband.  "^^ 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  j^ho  was  as 
much  hen-pecked  as  his  master ;  for  Dame  Van  Winkle  regarded 
them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and  even  looked  upon  Wolf  with 
an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause  of  his  master's  going  so  often  astray. 
True  it  is,  in  all  points  of  spirit  befitting  an  honorable  dog,  he  was 
as  courageous  an  animal  as  ever  scoured  the  Avoods — but  what 
courage  can  withstand  the  ever-during  and  all-besetting  terrors  of 
a  woman's  tongue  ?  The  moment  Wolf  entered  the  house  his  crtest 
fell,  his  tail  drooped  to  the  ground,  or  curled  between  his  legs;  he 
sneaked  about  with  a  galloVs  air,  casting  many  a  sidelong  glance 
at  Dame  Van  Winkle,  and  at  the  least  flourish  of  a  broomstick  or 
laate,  he  would  fly  to  the  door  with  yelping  precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  as  years  of 
matrimony  rolled  on;  a  tart  temper  never  mellbws  with  age,  and  a 
sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edged  tool  that  grows  keener  with  constant 
use.  For  a  long  while  he  used  to  console  himself,  when  driven 
from  home,  by  frequenting  a  kind  of  perpetual  club  of  the  sages, 
philosophers,  and  other  idle  personages  of  the  village  ;  which  held 
its  sessions  on  a  bench  before  a  small  inn,  designated  by  a  rubicund 
portrait  of  His  Majesty  George  the  Third.  Here  they  used  to  sit  in 
the  shade  through  a  long,  lazy,  summer's  day,  talking  listlessly  over 
village  gossip,  or  telling  endless  sleepy  stories  about  nothing.  But 
it  would  have  been  worth  any  statesman's  money  to  hare  heard 
the  profound  discussions  that  sometimes  ux>k place,  when  by  ib"Ui  _e 


£4.  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

an  old  newspaper  fell  into  their  hands  from  some  passing  traveller 
How  solemnly  they  would  listen  to  the  contents,  as  drawled  out  by 
Derrick  Van  Bummel,  the^choolmaster,  a  dapper,  learned  little 
man,  who  was  not  to  be  daunted  by  the  most  gigantic  word  in  the 
dictionary;  and  how  sagely  they  would  deliberate  upon  public 
events  some  months  after -they  had  taken  place. 

The  opinions  of  this  junto  w£re  completely  controlled  by  Nicho 
las  Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village,  and  landlord  of  the  inn  ;  at 
the  door  of  which  he  took  his  seat  from  morning  till  night,  just 
moving  sufficiently  to  avoid  the  sun  and  keep  in  the  shade  of  a 
large  tree;  so  that  the  neighbors  could  tell  the  hour  by  his  move 
ments  as  accurately  as  by  a  sun-dial.  It  is  true,  he  was^rarely 
heard  to  speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe  incessantly.  His  adherents, 
however  (for  every  great  man  has  his  adherents),  perfectly  under 
stood  him,  and  knew  how  to  gather  his  opinions.  When  anything 
that  was  read  or  related  displeased  him,  he  was  observed  to  smoke 
his  pipe  vehemently,  and  to  send  forth  short,  frequent,  and  angry 
puffs ;  but  when  pleased,  he  would  inhale  the  smoke  slowly  and 
tranquilly,  and  emit  it  in  light  and  placid  clouds;  and  sometimes, 
taking  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  letting  the  fragrant  vapor  curl 
r  bout  his  nose,  would  gravely  nod  his  head  in  token  of  perfect 
approbation. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at  lengtn  routed 
by  his  termagajit~wlfe>'"wHo  would  suddenly  break  in  upon  the 
tranquillity  of  the  assemblage  and  call  the  members  all  to  naught; 
nor  was  that  august  personage,  Nicholas^  Vedder  himself,  sacred 
from  the  daring  tongue  of  this  terrible  virago,  who  charged  him 
outright  with  encouraging  her  husband  in  habits  of  idleness. 
_Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair;  and  his  only 
alternative,  to  escape  from  the  labor  of  the  farm  and  clamor  of  his 
wife,  was  to  take  gun  in  hand  and  stroll  away  into  the  woods. 
Here  he  would  sometimes  seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and 
share  the  contents  of  his  walletswith  Wolf,  with  whom  he  sympa 
thized  as  a  fellow-sufferer  in  persecution.  "  Poor  Wolf,"  he  would 
say,  "  thy  mistress  leads  thee  a  dog's  life  of  it;  but  never  mind,  my 
Jad,  whilst  I  live  thou  shalt  never  want  a  friend  to  stand  by  thee!  " 
Wolf  would  wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully  in  his  master's  face,  and  if 
ogs  can  feel  pity  I  verily  believe  he  reciprocated  the  sennhient 
with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  fine  autumnal  day,  Rip  had 
inconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest  parts  of  the  Kaats- 
'dll  mountains.  He  was  after  his  favorite  sport  of  squirrel  shooting, 
ind  the  still  coptudes  had  echoed  and  re-echoed  with  the  reports 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  35 

of  his  gun.  Panting  and  fatigued,  he  threw  himself,  late  in  the 
afternoon,  on  a  green  knbll,  covered  with  mountain  herbage,  that 
crowned  the  brow  of  a  precipice.  From  an  opening  between  the 
trees  he  could  over-look  all  the  lower  country  for  many  a  mile  of 
rich  woodland.  He  saw  at  a  distance  the  lordly  Hudson,  far,  far 
below  him,  moving  on  its  silent  but  majestic  course,  with  the  reflec 
tion  of  a  purple  cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here  and  there 
sleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom,  and  at  last  losing  itself  in  the  blue 
highlands.  v 

On  the  other  sicje  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  mountain  gleK 
wild,  lonely,  and  sh\gged,  the  bottom  filled  with  fragments  from 
the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely  lighted  by  the  reflected  rays  of 
the  setting  sun.  For  some  time  Rip  lay  musing  on  this  scene; 
evening  was  gradually  advancing;  the  mountains  began  to  throw 
their  long,  blue  shadows  over  the  valleys ;  he  saw  that  it  would  be 
dark  long  before  he  could  reach  the  village,  and  he  heaved  a 
heavy  sigh  when  he  thought  of  encountering  the  terrors  of  Dame 
Van  Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a  voice  from  a 
distance,  hallooing,  "Rip  Van  Winkle!  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  He 
looked  round,  but  could  see  nothing  but  a  crow  winging  its  solitary 
flight  across  the  mountain.  He  thought  his  fancy  must  have 
deceived  him,  and  turned  again  to  descend,  when  he  heard  the 
same  cry  ring  through  the  still  evening  air;  "Rip  Van  Winkle! 
Rip  Van  Winkle  !  " — at  the  same  time  Wolf  bristled  up  his  back, 
and  giving  a  low  growl,  skulked  to  his  master's  side,  looking  fear 
fully  down  into  the  glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  va^ie  apprehension 
stealing  over  him;  he  looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction,  and 
perceived  a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the  rocks,  and  bending 
under  the  weight  of  something  he  carried  on  his  back.  He  was 
surprised  to  see  any  human  being  in  this  lonely  and  unfrequented 
place,  but  supposing  it  to  be  some  one  of  the  neighborhood  in  need 
of  his  assistance,  he  hastened  down  to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach  he  was  still  more  surprised  at  the  singularity 
of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was  a  short,  square-built  old 
fellow,  with  thick,  bushy  hair,  and  a  grizzled  beard.  His  dress 
was  of  the  antique  Dutch  fashion — a  cloth  jerkin  strapped  round 
the  waist — several  pair  of  breeches,  the  outer  one  of  ample  volume, 
decorated  with  rows  of  buttons  down  the  sides,  and  bunches  at  the 
knees.  He  bore  on  his  shoulder  a  stout  keg,  that  seemed  full  of 
liquor,  and  made  signs  for  Rip  to  approach  and  assist  him  with  the 
load.  Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this  new  acquaintance, 
Rip  complied  with  his  usual  alacrity  ;  and  mutually  relieving  one 


j6  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

^another,  they  clafhbered  up  a  narrow  gully,  apparently  the  dry 
bed  of  a  mountain  torrent.  As  they  ascended,  Rip  every  now  and 
then  heard  long,  rolling  peals,  like  distant  thunder,  that  seemed  to 
issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine,  or  rather  cleft,  between  lofty  rocks, 
toward  which  their  rugged  path  conducted.  He  paused  for  an 
instant,  but  supposing  it  to  be  the  muttering  of  one  of  those  tran- 
si^nt  thunder-showers  which  often  take  place  in  mountain  heights, 
he  proceeded.  Passing  through  the  rawne,  they  came  to  a  hollow, 
like  a  small  amphitheatre,  surrounded  by  perpendicular  precipices, 
over  the  brinks  of  which  impending  trees  shot  their  branches,  so 
that  you  only  caught  glimpses  of  the  azuve  sky  and  the  bright, 
evening  cloud.  During  the  whole  time  Rip  and  his  companion 
had  labored  on  in  silence  ;  for  though  the  former  marvelled  greatly 
what  could  be  the  object  of  carrying  a  keg  of  liquor  up  this  wild 
mountain,  yet  there  was  something  strange  and  incomprehensible 
about  the  unknown,  that  inspired  awe  and  checked  familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of  wonder  presented 
themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  centre  was  a  company  of  odd- 
looking  personages  playing  at  nine-pins.  Th^y  were  dressed  in  a 
quaint,  outlandish  fashion  ;  some  wore  short  doublets,  others  jerlHns, 
with  long  knives  in  their  belts,  and  most  of  them  had  enorrnous 
breeches,  of  similar  style  with  that  of  the  guide's.  Their  visages, 
too,  were  peculiar:  one  had  a  large  beard,  broad  face,  and  small, 
piggish  eyes:  the  face  of  another  seemed  to  consist  entirely  of 
nose,  and  was  surmounted  by  a  white,  sugar-loaf  hat,  set  off  with  a 
little  red  cock's  tail.  They  all  had  beards,  of  various  shapes  and 
colors.  There  was  one  who  seemed  to  be  the  commander.  He 
was  a  stout  old  gentleman,  with  a  weather-beaten  countenance ; 
he  wore  a  laced  doublet,  broad  belt  and  hanger,  high  crowned  hat 
and  feather,  red  stockings,  and  high-heeled  shoes,  with  roses  in 
them.  The  whole  group  reminded  Rip  of  the  figures  in  an  old 
Flemish  painting,  in  the  parlor  of  Dominie  Van  Shaick,  the  village 
parsbn,  and  which  had  been  brought  over  from  Holland  at  the 
time  of  the  settlement. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was,  that  though  these 
folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves,  yet  they  maintained  the 
gravest  faces,  the  most  mysterious  silence,  and  were,  withal,  the 
most  melancholy  party  of  pleasure  he  had  ever  witnessed.  Nothing 
interrupted  the  stillness  of  the  scene  but  the  noise  of  the  balls, 
which,  whenever  they  were  rolled,  echoed  along  the  mountains  like 
rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they  suddenly 
desisted  from  fheir  play,  and  stared  at  him  with  siich  fixed,  statue- 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  37 

like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  uncouth,  lack-lustre  countenances, 
sthat  nis  heart  turned  within  him,  and  his  knees  smote  together. 
His  companion  now  emptied  the  contents  of  the  keg  into  large 
flagons,  and  made  signs  to  him  to  wait  upon  the  company.  He 
obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling;  they  qiSlffed  the  liquor  in  pro 
found  silence,  and  then  returned  to  their  game.\ 

By  degrees  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsicled.  He  even  ven 
tured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to  taste  the  beverage, 
which  he  found  had  much  of  the  flavor  of  excellent  Hollands.  He 
wa$»  naturally  a  thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon  tempted  to  repeat  the 
draught.  One  taste  provoked  another ;  and  he  reiterated  his  visits 
to  the  flagon  so  often  that  at  length  his  senses  were  overpowered, 
his  eyes  swam  in  his  head,  his  head  gradually  declined,  and  he  fell 
into  a  deep  sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll  whence  he  had 
first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.  He  rubbed  his  eyes — it  was  a 
bright,  sunny  morning.  The  birds  were  hopping  and  twittering 
among  the  bushes,  and  the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft,  and  breasting 
the  pure  mountain  breeze.  "  Surely,"  thought  Rip,  "  I  have  not 
slept  here  all  night."  He  recalled  the  occurrences  before  he  fell 
asleep.  The  strange  man  with  a  keg  of  liquor — the  mountain 
ravme — the  wild  retreat  among  the  rocks — the  wobegone  party  at 
nine-pins — the  flagon — "  Oh !  that  flagon  !  that  wicked  flagon  !  " 
thought  Rip — "  what  excuse  shall  I  make  to  Dame  Van  Winkle  !  " 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the  clean,  well-oiled 
fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  firelock  lying  by  him,  the  barrel 
incruSted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling  off,  and  the  stock  worm-eaten. 
He  now  suspected  that  the  grave  roysfeerers  of  the  mountain  had  put 
a  trick  upon  him,  and,  having  dosed  him  with  liquor,  had  robbed 
him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  disappeared,  but  he  might  have 
strayed  away  after  a  squirrel  or  partridge.  He  whistled  after  him 
and  shouted  his  name,  but  all  in  vain ;  the  echoes  repeated  his 
whistle  and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  evening's  gambol, 
and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to  demand  his  dog  and  gun. 
As  he  rose  to  walk,  he  found  himself  stiff  in  the  joints,  and  wanting 
in  his  usual  activity.  "  These  mountain  beds  do  not  agree  with 
me,"  thought  Rip,  "  and  if  this  frolic  should  lay  me  up  with  a  fit  of 
rheumatism,  I  shall  have  a  blessed  time  with  Dame  Van  Winkle." 
With  some  difficulty  he  got  down  into  the  glen  :  he  found  the 
gully  up  which  he  and  his  companion  had  ascended  the  preceding 
evening ;  but  to  his  astonishment  a  mountain  stream  was  now 
foaming  down  it,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  and- filling  the  glen 


38  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

with  babbling  murmurs.  He,  however,  made  shift  to  scramble  up 
its  sides,  working  his  toilsome  way  through  thickets  of  birch,  sassa 
fras,  and  witch-hazel,  and  sometimes  tripped  up  or  entangled  by 
che  wild  grape-vines  that  twisted  their  coils  or  tendrils  from  tree  to 
tree,  and  spread  a  kind  of  network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had  opened  through 
the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre;  but  no  traces  of  such  opening 
remained.  The  rocks  presented  a  high,  impenetrable  wall  over 
which  the  torrent  came  tumbling  in  a  sheet  of  feathery  foam,  and 
fell  into  a  broad,  deep  basin,  black  from  the  shadows  of  the  sur 
rounding  forest.  Here,  then,  poor  Rip  was  brought  to  a  stand. 
He  again  called  and  whistled  after  his  dog  ;  he  was  only  answered 
by  the  cawing  of  a  flock  of  idle  crows,  sporting  high  in  air  about  a 
dry  tree  that  overhung  a  sunny  precipice ;  and  who,  secure  in  their 
elevation,  seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at  the  poor  man's  per 
plexities.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  the  morning  was  passing  away, 
and  Rip  felt  famished  for  want  of  his  breakfast.  He  grieved  to 
give  up  his  dog  and  gun ;  he  dreaded  to  meet  his  wife ;  but  it 
would  not  do  to  starve  among  the  mountains.  He  shook  his  head, 
shouldered  the  rusty  firelock,  and,  with  a  heart  full  of  trouble  and 
anxiety,  turned  his  steps  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village  he  met  a  number  of  people,  but 
none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  surprised  him,  for  he  had 
thought  himself  acquainted  with  every  one  in  the  country  round. 
Their  dress,  too,  was  of  a  different  fashion  from  that  to  which  he 
was  accustomed.  They  all  stared  at  him  with  equal  marks  of  sur 
prise,  and  whenever  they  cast  their  eyes  upon  him,  invariably 
stroked  their  chins.  The  constant  recurrence  of  this  gesture 
induced  Rip,  involuntarily,  to  do  the  same,  when,  to  his  astonish 
ment,  he  found  his  beard  had  grown  a  foot  long ! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A  troop  of  strange 
children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting  after  him,  and  pointing  at  his  gray 
beard.  The  dogs,  too,  not  one  of  which  he  recognized  for  an  old 
acquaintance,  barked  at  him  as  he  passed.  The  very  village  was 
altered  ;  it  was  larger  and  more  populous.  There  were  rows  of 
houses  which  he  had  never  seen  before,  and  those  which  had  been 
his  familiar  haunts  had  disappeared.  Strange  names  were  over 
the  doors — strange  faces  at  the  windows — everything  was  strange. 
His  mind  now  misgave  him  ;  he  began  to  doubt  whether  both  he 
and  the  world  around  him  were  not  bewitched.  Surely  this  was 
his  native  village,  which  he  had  left  but  the  day  before.  There 
stood  the  Kaatskill  mountains — there  ran  the  silver  Hudson  at  a 
distance — there  was  every  hill  and  dale  precisely  as  it  had  always 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  39 

been — Rip  was  sorely  perplexed — "  That  flagon  last  night,"  though* 
he,  "has  addled  my  poor  head  sadly  !  " 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way  to  his  own. 
house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe,  expecting  every 
moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  He  found 
the  house  gone  to  decay — the  roof  fallen  in,  the  windows  shattered, 
and  the  doors  off  the  hinges.  A  half-starved  dog  that  looked  like 
Wolf  was  skulking  about  it.  Rip  called  him  by  name,  but  the  cur 
snarled,  showed  his  teeth,  and  passed  on.  This  was  an  unkind 
cut,  indeed — "My  very  dog,"  sighed  poor  Rip,  "has  forgotten 
me! " 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame  Van  Winkle 
had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was  empty,  forlorn,  and  appar 
ently  abandoned.  This  desolateness  overcame  all  his  connubial 
fears — he  called  loudly  for  his  wife  and  children — the  lonely  cham 
bers  rang  for  a  moment  with  his  voice,  and  then  all  again  was 
silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort,  the  village 
inn — but  it,  too,  was  gone.  A  large,  rickety,  wooden  building  stood 
in  its  place,  with  great,  gaping  windows,  some  of  them  broken  and 
nnended  with  old  hats  and  petticoats,  and  over  the  door  was  painted, 
<cthe  Union  Hotel,  by  Jonathan  Doolittle."  Instead  of  the  great 
tree  that  used  to  shelter  the  quiet  little  Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there 
now  was  reared  a  tall,  naked  pole,  with  something  on  the  top  that 
looked  like  a  red  night-cap,  and  from  it  was  fluttering  a  flag,  on 
which  was  a  singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes — all  this  was 
strange  and  incomprehensible.  He  recognized  on  the  sign,  how 
ever,  the  ruby  face  of  King  George,  under  which  he  had  smoked 
so  many  a  peaceful  pipe  ;  but  even  this  was  singularly  metamor 
phosed.  The  red  coat  was  changed  for  one  of  blue  and  buff,  a 
sword  was  held  in  the  hand  instead  of  a  sceptre,  the  head  was 
decorated  with  a  cocked  hat,  and  underneath  was  painted  in  large 
characters,  GENERAL  WASHINGTON. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door,  but  none 
that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character  of  the  people  seemed 
changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bustling,  disputatious  tone  about  it, 
instead  of  the  accustomed  phlegm  and  drowsy  tranquillity.  He 
looked  in  vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Vedder,  with  his  broad  face, 
double  chin,  and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering  clouds  of  tobacco-smoke 
instead  of  idle  speeches  ;  or  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  doling 
forth  the  contents  of  an  ancient  newspaper.  In  place  of  these,  a 
lean,  billious-iooking  fellow,  with  his  pockets  full  of  handbills,  was 
haranguing  vehemently  about  the  rights  of  citizens— elections— 


40  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

members  of  congress — liberty — Bunker's  Hill — heroes  of  seventy- 
six — and  other  words,  which  were  a  perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to 
the  bewildered  Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long,  grizzled  beard,  his  rusty 
fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  an  army  of  women  and  chil 
dren  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  the  tavern  politicians. 
They  crowded  round  him,  eyeing  him  from  head  to  foot  with  great 
curiosity.  The  orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and  drawing  him  partly 
aside,  inquired  "on  which  side  he  voted?"  Rip  stared  in  vacant 
stupidity.  Another  short  but  busy  little  fellow  pulled  him  by  the 
arm  and  rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear,  "  Whether  he  was  a 
Federal  or  a  Democrat?"  Rip  was  equally  at  a  loss  to  compre 
hend  the  question  ;  when  a  knowing,  self-important  old  gentleman, 
in  a  sharp  cocked  hat,  made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  putting 
them  to  the  right  and  left  with  his  elbows  as  he  passed,  and  plant 
ing  himself  before  Van  Winkle,  with  one  arm  akimbo,  the  other 
resting  on  his  cane,  his  keen  eyes  and  sharp  hat  penetrating,  as  it 
were,  into  his  very  soul,  demanded,  in  an  austere  tone,  "What 
brought  him  to  the  election  with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  mob 
at  his  heels,  and  whether  he  meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the  villager1" 
— "Alas!  gentlemen,"  cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "I  am  a 
poor,  quiet  man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a  loyal  subject  ot  the 
king,  God  bless  him !  " 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders — "A  tory !  a 
tory!  a  spy!  a  refugee!  hustle  him!  away  with  him!"  It  was 
with  great  difficulty  that  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat 
restored  order ;  and,  having  assumed  a  tenfold  austerity  of  brow, 
cmanded  again  of  the  unknown  culprit,  what  he  came  there  for,  and 
whom  he  was  seeking  ?  The  poor  man  humbly  assured  him  that  he 
meant  no  harm,  but  merely  came  there  in  search  of  some  of  his  neigh 
bors,  who  used  to  keep  about  the  tavern. 

"Well — who  are  they? — name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired,  "  Where's  Nich 
olas  Vedder?" 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old  man  replied, 
in  a  thin,  piping  voice,  "Nicholas  Vedder!  why,  he  is  dead  and 
gone  these  eighteen  years !  There  was  a  wooden  tombstone  in  the 
church-yard  that  used  to  tell  all  about  him,  but  that's  rotten  and 
gone,  too." 

"Where's  Brom  Butcher?" 

"  Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the  war  ;  some 
say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony  Point — others  say  he  vas 
drowned  in  a  squall  at  the  foot  of  Antony's  nose.  I  don't  know — 
he  never  came  back  again." 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  4t 

•'Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster?" 

"  He  went  off  to  the  wars,  too,  was  a  great  militia  general,  and  is 
now  in  congress/' 

Rip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad  changes  in  his 
home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself  thus  alone  in  the  world. 
Every  answer  puzzled  him,  too,  by  treating  of  such  enormous  lapses 
of  time,  and  of  matters  which  he  could  not  understand;  war — con 
gress — Stony  Point ; — he  had  no  courage  to  ask  after  any  more 
friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair,  "  Does  nobody  here  know  Rip  Van 
Winkle?" 

"Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  exclaimed  two  or  three,  "Oh,  to  be 
sure!  that's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  leaning  against  the  tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of  himself,  as  he 
went  up  the  mountain :  apparently  as  lazy,  and  certainly  as  ragged. 
The  poor  fellow  was  now  completely  confounded.  He  doubted  his 
own  identity,  and  whether  he  was  himself  or  another  man.  In  the 
midst  of  his  bewilderment,  the  man  in  the  cocked  hat  demanded 
who  he  was,  and  what  was  his  name  ? 

"  God  knows,"  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wit's  end  ;  "I'm  not  myself 
— I'm  somebody  else — that's  me  yonder — no — that's  somebody  else 
got  into  my  shoes — I  was  myself  last  night,  but  I  fell  asleep  on  the 
mountain,  and  they've  changed  my  gun,  and  everything's  changed, 
and  I'm  changed,  and  I  can't  tell  what's  my  name,  or  who  I  am!" 

The  by-standers  began  now  to  look  at  each  other,  nod,  wink  sig 
nificantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against  their  foreheads.  Then 
was  a  whisper,  also,  about  securing  the  gun,  and  keeping  the  old 
fellow  from  doing  mischief,  at  the  very  suggestion  of  which  the  self- 
important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  retired  with  some  precipitation. 
At  this  critical  moment  a  fresh,  comely  woman  pressed  through  tbe 
throng  to  get  a  peep  at  the  gray-bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby 
child  in  her  arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks,  began  to  cry. 
"  Hush,  Rip,"  cried  she,  "  hush,  you  little  fool ;  the  old  man  won't 
hurt  you."  The  name  of  the  child,  the  air  of  the  mother,  the  tone 
of  her  voice,  all  awakened  a  train  of  recollections  in  his  mind. 
"  What  is  your  name,  my  good  woman?"  asked  he. 

"Judith  Gardenier." 

"  And  your  father's  name  ?  " 

"Ah,  poor  man,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his  name,  but  it's  twenty 
years  since  he  went  away  from  his  home  with  his  gun,  and  nevev 
has  been  heard  of  since — his  dog  came  home  without  him ;  but 
whether  he  shot  himself,  or  was  carried  away  by  the  Indians, 
nobody  can  tell.  I  was  then  but  a  little  girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask  ;  but  he  put  it  with  a  fal 
tering  voice : 


42  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

"  Where's  your  mother  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she,  too,  had  died  but  a  short  time  since  ;  she  broke  a  blood 
vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New-England  peddler." 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in  this  intelligence.  The 
nonest  man  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  He  caught  his 
daughter  and  her  child  in  his  arms.  "  I  am  your  father!  "  cried 
he—"  Young  Rip  Van  Winkle  once — old  Rip  Van  Winkle  now ! — 
Does  nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out  from  among 
the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  peering  under  it  in  his 
face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed,  "  Sure  enough  !  it  is  Rip  Van  Win 
kle—it  is  himself!  Welcome  home  again,  old  neighbor !  Why, 
where  have  you  been  these  twenty  long  years  ? ' ' 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty  years  had  been 
to  him  but  as  one  night.  The  neighbors  stared  when  they  heard 
it ;  some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each  other,  and  put  their  tongues  in 
their  cheeks :  and  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat,  who, 
when  the  alarm  was  over,  had  returned  to  the  field,  screwed  down 
the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  shook  his  head — upon  which  there 
was  a  general  shaking  of  the  head  throughout  the  assemblage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of  old  Peter 
Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advancing  up  the  road.  He 
was  a  descendent  of  the  historian  of  that  name,  who  wrote  one  of 
the  earliest  accounts  of  the  province.  Peter  was  the  most  ancient 
inhabitant  of  the  village,  and  well  versed  in  all  the  wonderful 
events  and  traditions  of  the  neighborhood.  He  recollected  Rip  at 
once,  and  corroborated  his  story  in  the  most  satisfactory  manner. 
He  assured  the  company  that  it  was  a  fact,  handed  down  from  his 
ancestor  the  historian,  that  the  Kaatskill  mountains  had  always 
been  haunted  by  strange  beings.  That  it  was  affirmed  that  the 
great  Hendrick  Hudson,  the  first  discoverer  of  the  river  and 
country,  kept  a  kind  of  vigil  there  every  twenty  years,  with  his 
crew  of  the  Half-moon  ;  being  permitted  in  this  way  to  revisit  the 
scenes  of  his  enterprise,  and  keep  a  guardian  eye  upon  the  river, 
and  the  great  city  called  by  his  name.  That  his  father  had  once 
seen  them  in  their  old  Dutch  dresses  playing  at  nine-pins  in  a 
hollow  of  the  mountain  ;  and  that  he  himself  had  heard,  one  sum 
mer  afternoon,  the  sound  of  their  balls,  like  distant  peals  of 
thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up,  and  returned 
to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the  election.  Rip's  daughter 
took  him  home  to  live  with  her  ;  she  had  a  snug,  well-furnished 
house,  and  a  stout,  cheery  farmer  for  a  husband,  whom  Rip  recol- 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  43 

tected  for  one  of  the  urchins  that  used  to  climb  upon  his  back.  As 
to  Rip's  son  and  heir,  who  was  the  ditto  of  himself,  seen  leaning 
against  the  tree,  he  was  employed  to  work  on  the  farm  ;  but 
evinced  an  hereditary  disposition  to  attend  to  anything  else  but 
his  business. 

Rip  riow  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits  ;  he  soon  found  many 
of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather  the  worse  for  the  wear  and 
tear  of  time  ;  and  preferred  making  friends  among  the  rising  gen 
eration,  with  whom  he  soon  grew  into  great  favor. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being  arrived  at  that  happy 
age  when  a  man  can  be  idle  with  impunity,  he  took  his  place  once 
more  on  the  bench  at  the  inn  door,  and  was  reverenced  as  one  of 
the  patriarchs  of  the  village,  and  a  chronicle  of  the  old  times 
"  before  the  war."  It  was  some  time  before  he  could  get  into  the 
regular  track  ov  gossip,  or  could  be  made  to  comprehend  the 
strange  events  that  had  taken  place  during  his  torpor.  How  that 
there  had  been  a  revolutionary  war — that  the  country  had  thrown 
off  the  yoke  of  old  England — and  that,  instead  of  being  a  subject 
of  his  Majesty  George  the  Third,  he  was  now  a  free  citizen  of  the 
United  States.  Rip,  in  fact,  was  no  politician  ;  the  changes  u, 
states  and  ejnpires  made  but  little  impression  on  him ;  but  there 
was  one  species  of  despotism  under  which  he  had  long  groaned, 
and  that  was — petticoat  government.  Happily,  that  was  at  an  end ; 
he  had  got  his  neck  out  of  the  yoke  of  matrimony,  and  could  go 
in  and  out  whenever  he  pleased,  without  dreading  the  tyranny  of 
Dame  Van  Winkle.  Whenever  her  name  was  mentioned,  however, 
he  shook  his  head,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  cast  up  his  eyes ; 
which  might  pass  either  for  an  expression  of  resignation  to  his  fate, 
or  joy  at  his  deliverance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that  arrived  at  Mr. 
Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed,  at  first,  to  vary  on  some 
points  every  time  he  told  it,  which  was,  doubtless,  owing  to  his 
having  so  recently  awaked.  It  at  last  settled  down  precisely  to 
the  tale  I  have  related,  and  not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in  the 
neighborhood,  but  knew  it  by  heart.  Some  always  pretended  to 
doubt  the  reality  of  it,  and  insisted  that  Rip  had  been  out  of  his 
head,  and  that  this  was  one  point  on  which  he  always  remained 
flighty.  The  old  Dutch  inhabitants,  however,  almost  universally 
gave  it  full  credit.  Even  to  this  day  they  never  hear  a  thunder 
storm  of  a  summer  afternoon  about  the  Kaatskill,  but  they  say 
Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  crew  are  at  their  game  of  nine-pins;  and 
it  is  a  common  wish  of  all  hen-pecked  husbands  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  when  life  hangs  heavy  on  their  hands,  that  they  might 
a  quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  flagon. 


44  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

NOTE. 

The  foregoing  Tale,  one  would  suspect,  had  been  suggested  to 
Mr.  Knickerbocker  by  a  little  Gorman  superstition  about  the 
Emperor  Frederick  der  Rothbart,  and  the  Kyphaiiser  mountain: 
the  subjoined  note,  however,  which  he  had  appended  to  the  tale, 
shows  that  it  is  an  absolute  fact,  narrated  with  his  usual  fidelity 

"The  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  may  seem  incredible  to  many 
but  nevertheless,  I  give  it  my  full  belief,  for  I  know  the  vicinity  o* 
our  old  Dutch  settlements  to  have  been  very  subject  to  marvellous 
events  and  appearances.  Indeed,  I  have  heard  many  stranger 
stories  than  this,  in  the  villages  along  the  Hudson  ;  all  of  which 
were  too  well  authenticated  to  admit  of  a  doubt.  I  have  even 
talked  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  myself,  who,  when  last  I  saw  him, 
was  a  very  venerable  old  man,  and  so  perfectly  rational  and  con 
sistent  on  every  other  point,  that  I  think  no  conscientious  person 
could  refuse  to  take  this  into  the  bargain  ;  nay,  I  have  seen  a  cer 
tificate  on  the  subject  taken  before  a  country  justice  and  signed 
with  a  cross,  in  the  justice's  own  handwriting.  The  story,  there 
fore,  is  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt. 

D.  K.M 

POSTSCRIPT. 

The  following  are  travelling  notes  from  a  memorandum-book  of 

Mr.  Knickerbocker: 

The  Kaatsberg,  or  Catskill  Mountains,  have  always  been  a  region 
full  of  fable.  The  Indians  considered  them  the  abode  of  spirits, 
who  influenced  the  weather,  spreading  sunshine  or  clouds  over  tht 
landscape,  and  sending  good  or  bad  hunting  seasons.  They  were 
ruled  by  an  old  squaw  spirit,  said  to  be  their  mother.  She  dwelt 
on  the  highest  peak  of  the  Catskills,  and  had  charge  of  the  doors 
of  day  and  night  to  open  and  shut  them  at  the  proper  hour.  She 
hung  up  the  new  moons  in  the  skies,  and  cut  up  the  old  ones  into 
stars.  In  times  of  drought,  if  properly  propitiated,  she  would  spin 
light  summer  clouds  out  of  cobwebs  and  morning  dew,  and  send 
them  off  from  the  crest  of  the  mountain,  flake  after  flake,  like 
flakes  of  carded  cotton,  to  float  in  the  air  ;  until,  dissolved  by  the 
heat  of  the  sun,  they  would  fall  in  gentle  showers,  causing  the  grass 
to  spring,  the  fruits  to  ripen,  and  the  corn  to  grow  an  inch  an  hour. 
If  displeased,  however,  she  would  brew  up  clouds  black  as  ink, 
sitting  in  the  midst  of  them  like  a  bottle- bellied  spider  in  the  midst 
of  its  web  ;  and  when  these  clouds  broke,  wobetide  the  valleys  ! 

In  old  times,  say  the  Indian  traditions,  there  was  a  kind  of 
Monitou  or  Spirit,  who  kept  about  the  wildest  recesses  of  the  Cat- 
skill  Mountains,  and  took  a  mischievous  pleasure  in  wreaking  all 
kinds  of  evils  and  vexations  upon  the  red  men.  Sometimes  he 
would  assume  the  form  of  a  bear,  a  panther,  or  a  deer,  lead  the 
bewildered  hunter  a  weary  chase  through  tangled  forests  and 
among  ragged  rocks  ;  and  then  spring  off  with  a  loud  ho!  ho! 
leaving  him  aghast  on  the  brink  of  a  beetling  precipice  or  raging 
torrent. 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA.  45 

The  favorite  abode  of  this  Manitou  is  still  shown.  It  is  a  great 
rock  or  cliff  on  the  loneliest  part  of  the  mountains,  and,  from  the 
flowering  vines  which  clamber  about  it,  and  the  wild  flowers  which 
abound  in  its  neighborhood,  is  known  by  the  name  of  the  Garden 
Rock.  Near  the  foot  of  it  is  a  small  lake,  the  haunt  of  the  solitary 
bittern,  with  watersnakes  basking  in  the  sun  on  the  leaves  of  the 
pond-lilies  which  lie  on  the  surface.  This  place  was  held  in  great 
awe  by  the  Indians,  insomuch  that  the  boldest  hunter  would  not 
pursue  his  game  within  its  precincts.  Once  upon  a  time,  however, 
a  hunter  who  had  lost  his  way,  penetrated  to  the  garden  rock, 
where  he  beheld  a  number  of  gourds  placed  in  the  crotches  of 
trees.  One  of  these  he  seized  and  made  off  with  it,  but  in  the 
hurry  of  his  retreat  he  let  it  fall  among  the  rocks,  when  a  great 
stream  gushed  forth,  which  washed  him  away  and  swept  him  down 
precipices,  where  he  was  dashed  to  pieces,  and  the  stream  made  its 
way  to  the  Hudson,  and  continues  to  flow  to  the  present  day ; 
being  the  identical  stream  known  by  the  name  of  the  Kaaters-kill. 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA. 

"  Methinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and  puissant  nation,  rousing  herself 
like  a  strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shaking  her  invincible  locks:  methinks  I 
see  her  as  an  eagle,  mewing  her  mighty  youth,  and  kindling  her  endazzled 
eyes  at  the  full  midday  beam." 

MILTON  ON  THE  LIBERTY  OF  THE  PRESS. 

IT  is  with  feelings  of  deep  regret  that  I  observe  the  literary 
animosity  daily  growing  up  between  England  and  America. 
Great  curiosity  has  been  awakened  of  late  with  respect  to  the 
United  States,  and  the  London  press  has  teemed  with  volumes  of 
travels  through  the  Republic  ;  but  they  seem  intended  to  diffuse 
error  rather  than  knowledge;  and  so  successful  have  they  been, 
that,  notwithstanding  the  constant  intercourse  between  the  nations, 
there  is  no  people  concerning  whom  the  great  mass  of  the  British 
public  have  less  pure  information,  or  entertain  more  numerous 
prejudices. 

English  travellers  are  the  best  and  the  worst  in  the  world. 
Where  no  motives  of  pride  or  interest  intervene,  none  can  equal 
them  for  profound  and  philosophical  views  of  society,  or  faithful 
and  graphical  descriptions  of  external  objects  ;  but  when  either 
the  interest  or  reputation  of  their  own  country  comes  in  collision 
with  that  of  another,  they  go  to  the  opposite  extreme,  and  forget 
their  usual  probity  and  candor,  in  the  indulgence  of  splenetic 
remark,  and  an  illiberal  spirit  of  ridicule. 

Hence,  their  travels  are  more  honest  and  accurate,  the  more 
remote  the  country  described.  I  would  place  implicit  confidence 


45  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

in  an  Englishman's  descriptions  of  the  regions  beyond  the  ca!a« 
racts  of  the  Nile  ;  of  unknown  islands  in  the  Yellow  Sea ;  of  the 
interior  of  India ;  or  of  any  other  tract  which  other  travellers  might 
be  apt  to  picture  out  with  the  illustrations  of  their  fancies  ;  but  I 
would  cautiously  receive  his  account  of  his  immediate  neighbors, 
and  of  those  nations  with  which  he  is  in  habits  of  most  frequent 
intercourse.  However  I  might  be  disposed  to  trust  his  probity,  I 
dare  not  trust  his  prejudices. 

It  has  also  been  the  peculiar  lot  of  our  country  to  be  visited  by 
the  worst  kind  of  English  travellers.  While  men  of  philosophical 
spirit  and  cultivated  minds  have  been  sent  from  England  to  ransack 
the  poles,  to  penetrate  the  deserts,  and  to  study  the  manners  and 
customs  of  barbarous  nations,  with  which  she  can  have  no  perma 
nent  intercourse  of  profit  or  pleasure  ;  it  has  been  left  to  the 
broken-down  tradesman,  the  scheming  adventurer,  the  wandering 
mechanic,  the  Manchester  and  Birmingham  agent,  to  be  our 
oracles  respecting  America.  From  such  sources  she  is  content  to 
receive  her  information  respecting  a  country  in  a  singular  state  of 
moral  and  physical  development ;  a  country  in  which  one  of  the 
greatest  political  experiments  in  the  history  of  the  world  is  now 
performing  ;  and  which  presents  the  most  profound  and  momentous 
studies  to  the  statesman  and  the  philosopher. 

""That  such  men  should  give  prejudicial  accounts  of  America  is 
not  a  matter  of  surprise.  The  themes  it  offers  for  contemplation 
are  too  vast  and  elevated  for  their  capacities.  The  national 
character  is  yet  in  a  state  of  fermentation ;  it  may  have  its  frothi- 
ness  and  sediment,  but  its  ingredients  are  sound  and  wholesome  ; 
it  has  already  given  proofs  of  powerful  and  generous  qualities  ;  and 
the  whole  promises  to  settle  down  into  something  substantially 
excellent.  But  the  causes  which  are  operating  to  strengthen  and 
ennoble  it,  and  its  daily  indications  of  admirable  properties,  are  all 
lost  upon  these  purblind  observers  ;  who  are  only  affected  by  the 
little  asperities  incident  to  its  present  situation.  They  are  capable 
of  judging  only  of  the  surface  of  things ;  of  those  matters  which 
come  in  contact  with  their  private  interests  and  personal  gratifica 
tions.  They  miss  some  of  the  snug  conveniences  and  petty 
comforts  which  belong  to  an  old,  highly-finished,  and  over- 
populous  state  of  society  where  the  ranks  of  useful  labor  are 
crowded,  and  many  earn  a  painful  and  servile  subsistence  by 
studying  the  very  caprices  of  appetite  and  self-indulgence.  These 
minor  comforts,  however,  are  all-important  in  the  estimation  of 
narrow  minds;  which  either  do  not  perceive,  or  will  not  acknowl 
edge,  that  they  are  more  than  counterbalanced  among  us  by  great 
and  generally  diffused  blessings. 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA.  47 

They  may,  perhaps,  have  been  disappointed  in  some  unreason 
able  expectation  of  sudden  gain.  They  may  have  pictured 
America  to  themselves  an  El  Dorado,  where  gold  and  silver 
abound,  and  the  natives  were  lacking  in  sagacity  ;  and  where  they 
were  to  become  strangely  and  suddenly  rich,  in  some  unforseen, 
but  easy  manner.  The  same  weakness  of  mind  that  indulges 
absurd  expectations  produces  petulance  in  disappointment.  Such 
persons  become  embittered  against  the  country  on  rinding  that  there, 
as  everywhere  else,  a  man  must  sow  before  he  can  reap  ;  must  win 
wealth  by  industry  and  talent ;  and  must  contend  with  the  common 
difficulties  of  nature,  and  the  shrewdness  of  an  intelligent  and 
enterprising  people. 

Perhaps,  through  mistaken,  or  ill-directed  hospitality,  or  from 
the  prompt  disposition  to  cheer  and  countenance  the  stranger, 
prevalent  among  my  countrymen,  they  may  have  been  treated 
with  unwonted  respect  in  America;  and  having  been  accustomed 
all  their  lives  to  consider  themselves  below  the  surface  of  good 
society,  and  brought  up  in  a  servile  feeling  of  inferiority,  they 
become  arrogant  on  the  common  boon  of  civility :  they  attribute 
to  the  lowliness  of  others  their  own  elevation ;  and  underrate  a 
society  where  there  are  no  artificial  distinctions,  and  where,  by 
chance,  such  individuals  as  themselves  can  rise  to  consequence. 
**'  One  would  suppose,  however,  that  information  coming  from  such 
sources,  on  a  subject  where  the  truth  is  so  desirable,  would  be 
received  with  caution  by  the  censors  of  the  press  ;  that  the  motives 
of  these  men,  their  veracity,  their  opportunities  of  inquiry  and 
observation,  and  their  capacities  for  judging  correctly,  would  bt 
rigorously  scrutinized  before  their  evidence  was  admitted,  in  such 
sweeping  extent,  against  a  kindred  nation.  The  very  reverse, 
however,  is  the  case,  and  it  furnishes  a  striking  instance  of  human 
inconsistency.  Nothing  can  surpass  the  vigilance  with  which 
English  critics  will  examine  the  credibility  of  the  traveller  who 
publishes  an  account  of  some  distant,  and  comparatively  unim 
portant  country.  How  warily  will  they  compare  the  measure 
ments  of  a  pyramid,  or  the  descriptions  of  a  ruin  ;  and  how  sternly 
will  they  censure  any  inaccuracy  in  the  contributions  of  merely 
curious  knowledge  :  while  they  will  receive,  with  eagerness  and 
unhesitating  faith,  the  gross  misrepresentations  of  coarse  and 
obscure  writers,  concerning  a  country  with  which  their  own  is 
placed  in  the  most  important  and  delicate  relations.  Nay,  they 
will  even  make  these  apocryphal  volumes  text-books,  on  which  to 
enlarge  with  a  zeal  and  an  ability  worthy  of  a  more  generous 
cause. 


45  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

T  shall  not,  however,  dwell  on  this  irksome  and  hackneyed  topic, 
nor  should  I  have  adverted  to  it,  but  for  the  undue  interest  appar 
ently  taken  in  it  by  my  countrymen,  and  certain  injurious 
effects  which  I  apprehended  it  might  produce  upon  the  national 
feeling.  We  attach  too  much  consequence  to  these  attacks.  They 
cannot  do  us  any  essential  injury.  The  tissue  of  misrepresenta 
tions  attempted  to  be  woven  round  ns  are  like  cobwebs  woven 
round  the  limbs  of  an  infant  giant.  Our  country  continually 
outgrows  them.  One  falsehood  after  another  falls  off  of  itself. 
We  have  but  to  live  on,  and  every  day  we  live  a  whole  volume  of 
refutation. 

All  the  writers  of  England  united,  if  we  could  for  a  moment 
suppose  their  great  minds  stooping  to  so  unworthy  a  combina 
tion,  could  not  conceal  our  rapidly-growing  importance,  and 
matchless  prosperity.  They  could  not  conceal  that  these  are 
owing,  not  merely  to  physical  and  local,  but  also  to  moral  causes — 
to  the  political  liberty,  the  general  diffusion  of  knowledge,  the  pre 
valence  of  sound  moral  and  religious  principles,  which  give  force 
and  sustained  energy  to  the  character  of  a  people  ;  and  which,  in 
fact,  have  been  the  acknowledged  and  wonderful  supporters  of 
their  own  national  power  and  glory. 

But  why  are  we  so  exquisitely  alive  to  the  aspersions  of  England  ? 
Why  do  we  suffer  ourselves  to  be  so  affected  by  the  contumely  she 
has  endeavored  to  cast  upon  us?  It  is  not  in  the  opinion  of  Eng 
land  alone  that  honor  lives,  and  reputation  has  its  being.  The 
world  at  large  is  the  arbitrator  of  a  nation's  fame ;  with  its  thousand 
eyes  it  witnesses  a  nation's  deeds,  and  from  their  collective  testi 
mony  is  national  glory  or  national  disgrace  established. 

For  ourselves,  therefore,  it  is  comparatively  of  but  little  impor 
tance  whether  England  does  us  justice  or  not;  it  is,  perhaps,  of  far 
more  importance  to  herself.  She  is  instilling  anger  and  resentment 
into  the  bosom  of  a  youthful  nation,  to  grow  with  its  growth  and 
strengthen  with  strength.  If  in  America,  as  some  of  her  writers  are 
laboring  to  convince  her,  she  is  hereafter  to  find  an  invidious  rival, 
and  a  gigantic  foe,  she  may  thank  those  very  writers  for  having 
provoked  rivalship  and  irritated  hostility.  Every  one  knows  the 
all-pervading  influence  of  literature  at  the  present  day,  and  how 
much  the  opinions  and  passions  of  mankind  are  under  its  control. 
The  mere  contests  of  the  sword  are  temporary ;  their  wounds  are 
but  in  the  flesh,  and  it  is  the  pride  of  the  generous  to  forgive  and 
forget  them  ;  but  the  slanders  of  the  pen  pierce  to  the  heart ;  they 
rankle  longest  in  the  noblest  spirits  ;  they  dwell  ever  present  in  the 
mind,  and  render  it  morbidly  sensitive  to  the  most  trifling  collision, 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA.  49 

It  is  but  seldom  that  any  one  overt  act  produces  hostilities  between 
two  nations  ;  there  exists,  most  commonly,  a  previous  jealousy  and 
ill-will ;  a  predisposition  to  take  offence.  Trace  these  to  their 
cause,  and  how  often  will  they  be  found  to  originate  in  the  mis 
chievous  effusions  of  mercenary  writers;  who,  secure  in  their 
closets,  and  for  ignominious  bread,  concoct  and  circulate  the 
venom  that  is  to  inflame  the  generous  and  the  brave. 

I  am  not  laying  too  much  stress  upon  this  point ;  for  it  applies 
most  emphatically  to  our  particular  case.  Over  no  nation  does  the 
press  hold  a  more  absolute  control  than  over  the  people  of  America ; 
for  the  universal  education  of  the  poorest  classes  makes  every 
individual  a  reader.  There  is  nothing  published  in  England  on 
the  subject  of  our  country  that  does  not  circulate  through  every 
part  of  it.  There  is  not  a  calumny  dropped  from  English  pen,  nor 
an  unworthy  sarcasm  uttered  by  an  English  statesman,  that  does 
not  go  to  blight  good-will,  and  add  to  the  mass  of  latent  resent 
ment.  Possessing,  then,  as  England  does,  the  fountain-head 
whence  the  literature  of  the  language  flows,  how  completely  is  it  in 
her  power,  and  how  truly  is  it  her  duty,  to  make  it  the  medium  of 
amiable  and  magnanimous  feeling — a  stream  where  the  two  nations 
might  meet  together,  and  drink  in  peace  and  kindness.  Should 
she,  however,  persist  in  turning  it  to  waters  of  bitterness,  the  time 
may  come  when  she  may  repent  her  folly.  The  present  friendship 
of  America  may  be  of  but  little  moment  to  her;  but  the  future 
destinies  of  that  country  do  not  admit  of  a  doubt ;  over  those  of 
England  there  lower  some  shadows  of  uncertainty.  Should,  then, 
a  day  of  gloom  arrive ;  should  these  reverses  overtake  her,  from 
which  the  proudest  empires  have  not  been  exempt ;  she  may  look 
back  with  regret  at  her  infatuation  in  repulsing  from  her  side  a 
nation  she  might  have  grappled  to  her  bosom,  and  thus  destroying 
her  only  chance  for  real  friendship  beyond  the  boundaries  of  her 
own  dominions. 

There  is  a  general  impression  in  England,  that  the  people  of  the 
United  States  are  inimical  to  the  parent  country.  It  is  one  of  the 
errors  which  have  been  diligently  propagated  by  designing  writers. 
There  is,  doubtless,  considerable  political  hostility,  and  a  general 
soreness  at  the  illiberality  of  the  English  press ;  but,  generally 
speaking,  the  prepossessions  of  the  people  are  strongly  in  favor  of 
England.  Indeed,  at  one  time,  they  amounted,  in  many  parts  of 
the  Union,  to  an  absurd  degree  of  bigotry.  The  bare  name  of 
Englishman  was  a  passport  to  the  confidence  and  hospitality  of 
every  family,  and  too  often  gave  a  transient  currency  to  the  worth 
less  and  the  ungrateful.  Throughout  the  country  there  was  some- 


50  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

thing  of  enthusiasm  connected  with  the  idea  of  England.  We 
looked  to  it  wich  a  hallowed  feeling  of  tenderness  and  veneration, 
as  the  land  of  our  forefathers — the  august  repository  of  the  monu 
ments  and  antiquities  of  our  race — the  birthplace  and  mausoleum 
of  the  sages  and  heroes  of  our  paternal  history.  After  our  own 
country,  there  was  none  in  whose  glory  we  more  delighted — none 
whose  good  opinion  we  were  more  anxious  to  possess — none  towards 
which  our  hearts  yearned  with  such  throbbings  of  warm  consan 
guinity.  Even  during  the  late  war,  whenever  there  was  the  least 
opportunity  for  kind  feelings  to  spring  forth,  it  was  the  delight  of 
the  generous  spirits  of  our  country  to  show  that,  in  the  midst  of  hos 
tilities,  they  still  kept  alive  the  sparks  of  future  friendship. 

Is  all  this  to  be  at  an  end  ?  Is  this  golden  band  of  kindred 
sympathies,  so  rare  between  nations,  to  be  broken  for  ever? — Per 
haps  it  is  for  the  best— it  may  dispel  an  illusion  which  might  have 
kept  us  in  mental  vassalage ;  which  might  have  interfered  occa 
sionally  with  our  true  interests,  and  prevented  the  growth  of  proper 
national  pride.  But  it  is  hard  to  give  up  the  kindred  tie !  and 
there  are  feelings  dearer  than  interest — closer  to  the  heart  than 
pride — that  will  still  make  us  cast  back  a  look  of  regret,  as  we 
wander  farther  and  farther  from  the  paternal  roof,  and  lament  the 
waywardness  of  the  parent  that  would  repel  the  affections  of  the 
child. 

Short-sighted  and  injudicious,  however,  as  the  conduct  of  Eng 
land  may  be  in  this  system  of  aspersion,  recrimination  on  our  part 
would  be  equally  ill-judged.  I  speak  not  of  a  prompt  and  spirited 
vindication  of  our  country,  nor  the  keenest  castigation  of  her  slan 
derers — but  I  allude  to  a  disposition  to  retaliate  in  kind  ;  to  retort 
sarcasm,  and  inspire  prejudice,  which  seems  to  be  spreading  widely 
among  our  writers.  Let  us  guard  particularly  against  such  a 
temper,  for  it  would  double  the  evil  instead  of  redressing  the  wrong. 
Nothing  is  so  easy  and  inviting  as  the  retort  of  abuse  and  sarcasm ; 
but  it  is  a  paltry  and  an  unprofitable  contest.  It  is  the  alternative 
of  a  morbid  mind,  fretted  into  petulance,  rather  than  warmed  into 
indignation.  If  England  is  willing  to  permit  the  mean  jealousies 
of  trade,  or  the  rancorous  animosities  of  politics,  to  deprave  the 
integrity  of  her  press,  and  poison  the  fountain  of  public  opinion,  let 
us  beware  of  her  example.  She  may  deem  it  her  interest  to  diffuse 
error,  and  engender  antipathy,  for  the  purpose  of  checking  emigra 
tion  ;  we  have  no  purpose  of  the  kind  to  serve.  Neither  have  we 
any  spirit  of  national  jealousy  to  gratify,  for,  as  yet,  in  all  our  rival- 
ships  with  England,  we  are  the  rising  and  the  gaining  party.  There 
can  be  no  end  to  answer,  therefore,  but  the  gratification  of  resent- 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA.  51 

ment — a  mere  spirit  of  retaliation ;  and  even  that  is  impotent.  Our 
retorts  are  never  republished  in  England  ;  they  fall  short,  therefore, 
of  their  aim ;  but  they  foster  a  querulous  and  peevish  temper 
among  our  writers  ;  they  sour  the  sweet  flow  of  our  early  literature, 
and  sow  thorns  and  brambles  among  its  blossoms.  What  is  still 
worse,  they  circulate  through  our  own  country,  and,  as  far  as  they 
have  effect,  excite  virulent  national  prejudices.  This  last  is  the 
evil  most  especially  to  be  deprecated.  Governed,  as  we  are,  en 
tirely  by  public  opinion,  the  utmost  care  should  be  taken  to  pre 
serve  the  purity  of  the  public  mind.  Knowledge  is  power,  and 
truth  is  knowledge  ;  whoever,  therefore,  knowingly  propagates  a 
prejudice,  willfully  saps  the  foundation  of  his  country's  strength. 

The  members  of  a  republic,  above  all  other  men,  should  be  can 
did  and  dispassionate.  They  are,  individually,  portions  of  the 
sovereign  mind  and  sovereign  will,  and  should  be  enabled  to  come 
to  all  questions  of  national  concern  with  calm  and  unbiased  judg 
ments.  From  the  peculiar  nature  of  our  relations  with  England, 
we  must  have  more  frequent  questions  of  a  difficult  and  delicate 
character  with  her  than  with  any  other  nation  ;  questions  that 
affect  the  most  acute  and  excitable  feelings ;  and  as,  in  the  adjust 
ing  of  these,  our  national  measures  must  ultimately  be  determined 
by  popular  sentiment,  we  cannot  be  too  anxiously  attentive  to  purify 
it  from  all  latent  passion  or  prepossession. 

Opening,  too,  as  we  do,  an  asylum  for  strangers  from  every  por- 
cion  of  the  earth,  we  should  receive  all  with  impartiality.  It  should 
be  our  pride  to  exhibit  an  example  of  one  nation,  at  least,  destitute 
of  national  antipathies,  and  exercising  not  merely  the  overt  acts  of 
hospitality,  but  those  more  rare  and  noble  courtesies  which  spring 
from  liberality  of  opinion. 

What  have  we  to  do  with  national  prejudices?  They  are  the 
inveterate  diseases  of  old  countries,  contracted  in  rude  and  ignorant 
ages,  when  nations  knew  but  little  of  each  other,  and  looked  beyond 
their  own  boundaries  with  distrust  and  hostility.  We,  on  the  con 
trary,  have  sprung  into  national  existence  in  an  enlightened  and 
philosophic  age,  when  the  different  parts  of  the  habitable  world, 
and  the  various  branches  of  the  human  family,  have  been  inde- 
fatigably  studied  and  made  known  to  each  other ;  and  we  forego , 
the  advantages  of  our  birth,  if  we  do  not  shake  off  the  national 
prejudices,  as  we  would  the  local  superstitions  of  the  old  world. 

But  above  all  let  us  not  be  influenced  by  any  angry  feelings,  so 
far  as  to  shut  our  eyes  to  the  perception  of  what  is  really  excellent 
and  amiable  in  the  English  character.  We  are  a  young  people, 
necessarily  an  imitative  one,  and  must  take  our  examples  and, 


52  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

models,  in  a  great  degree,  from  the  existing  nations  of  Europe. 
There  is  no  country  more  worthy  of  our  study  than  England.  The 
spirit  of  her  constitution  is  most  analogous  to  ours.  The  manners 
of  her  people — their  intellectual  activity — their  freedom  of  .pinion 
— their  habits  of  thinking  on  those  subjects  which  concern  the 
dearest  interests  and  most  sacred  charities  of  private  life,  are  all 
congenial  to  the  American  character ;  and,  in  fact,  are  all  intrin 
sically  excellent ;  for  it  is  in  the  moral  feeling  of  the  people  that  the 
deep  foundations  of  British  prosperity  are  laid ;  and  however  the 
superstructure  may  be  time-worn,  or  overrun  by  abuses,  there  must 
be  something  solid  in  the  basis,  admirable  in  the  materials,  and 
stable  in  the  structure  of  an  edifice  that  so  long  has  towered 
unshaken  amidst  the  tempests  of  the  world. 

Let  it  be  the  pride  of  our  writers,  therefore,  discarding  all  feelings 
of  irritation,  and  disdaining  to  retaliate  the  illiberality  of  British 
authors,  to  speak  of  the  English  nation  without  prejudice,  and  with 
determined  candor.  While  they  rebuke  the  indiscriminating  big 
otry  with  which  some  of  our  countrymen  admire  and  imitate  every 
thing  English,  merely  because  it  is  English,  let  them  frankly  point 
out  what  is  really  worthy  of  approbation.  We  may  thus  place 
England  before  us  as  a  perpetual  volume  of  reference,  wherein  are 
recorded  sound  deductions  from  ages  of  experience;  and  while  we 
avoid  the  errors  and  absurdities  which  may  have  crept  into  the 
page,  we  may  draw  thence  golden  maxims  of  practical  wisdom, 
wherewith  to  strengthen  and  to  embellish  our  national  character. 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND. 

Oh!  friendly  to  the  best  pursuits  of  man, 
Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue,  and  to  peace, 
Domestic  life  in  rural  pleasures  past! 

COWPEB. 

THE  stranger  who  would  form  a  correct  opinion  of  the  English 
character  must  not  confine  his  observations  to  the  metropolis. 
He  must  go  forth  into  the  country ;  he  must  sojourn  in  villages 
and  hamlets  ;  he  must  visit  castles,  villas,  farm-houses,  cottages  ;  he 
must  wander  through  parks  and  gardens  ;    along  hedges  and  green 
lanes  ;   he  must  loiter  about  country  churches;    attend  wakes  and 
fairs,  and  other  rural  festivals;    and  cope  with  the  people  in  all 
their  conditions,  and  all  their  habits  and  humors. 

In  some  countries  the  large  cities  absorb  the  wealth  and 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND.  53 

of  the  nation ;  they  are  the  only  fixed  abodes  of  elegant  and  intel 
ligent  society,  and  the  country  is  inhabited  almost  entirely  by  boor 
ish  peasantry.  In  England,  on  the  contrary,  the  metropolis  is  a 
mere  gathering-place,  or  general  rendezvous,  of  the  polite  classes, 
where  they  devote  a  small  portion  of  the  year  to  a  hurry  of  gayety 
and  dissipation,  and,  having  indulged  this  kind  of  carnival,  return 
again  to  the  apparently  more  congenial  habits  of  rural  life.  The 
various  orders  of  society  are,  therefore,  diffused  over  the  whole  sur 
face  of  the  kingdom,  and  the  most  retired  neighborhoods  afford 
specimens  of  the  different  ranks. 

The  English,  in  fact,  are  strongly  gifted  with  the  rural  feeling. 
They  possess  a  quick  sensibility  to  the  beauties  of  nature  and  a 
keen  relish  for  the  pleasures  and  employments  of  the  country.  This 
passion  seems  inherent  in  them.  Even  the  inhabitants  of  cities, 
born  and  brought  up  among  brick  walls  and  bustling  streets,  enter 
with  facility  into  rural  habits,  and  evince  a  tact  for  rural  occupa 
tion.  The  merchant  has  his  snug  retreat  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
metropolis,  where  he  often  displays  as  much  pride  and  zeal  in  the 
cultivation  of  his  flower-garden,  and  the  maturing  of  his  fruits,  as 
he  does  in  the  conduct  of  his  business,  and  the  success  of  a  com 
mercial  enterprise.  Even  those  less  fortunate  individuals,  who  are 
doomed  to  pass  their  lives  in  the  midst  of  din  and  traffic,  contrive 
to  have  something  that  shall  remind  them  of  the  green  aspect  of 
nature.  In  the  most  dark  and  dingy  quarters  of  the  city,  the 
drawing-room  window  resembles  frequently  a  bank  of  flowers;  every 
spot  capable  of  vegetation  has  its  grass-plot  and  flower-bed ;  and 
every  square  its  mimic  park,  laid  out  with  picturesque  taste,  and 
gleaming  with  refreshing  verdure. 

Those  who  see  the  Englishman  only  in  town  are  apt  to  form  an 
unfavorable  opinion  of  his  social  character.  He  is  either  absorbed 
in  business,  or  distracted  by  the  thousand  engagements  that  dissi 
pate  time,  thought,  and  feeling,  in  this  huge  metropolis.  He  has, 
therefore,  too  commonly  a  look  of  hurry  and  abstraction.  Wher 
ever  he  happens  to  be,  he  is  on  the  point  of  going  somewhere  else ; 
at  the  moment  he  is  talking  on  one  subject,  his  mind  is  wander 
ing  to  another ;  and  while  paying  a  friendly  visit,  he  is  calculating 
how  he  shall  economize  time  so  as  to  pay  the  other  visits  allotted  in 
the  morning.  An  immense  metropolis  like  London,  is  calculated  to 
make  men  selfish  and  uninteresting.  In  their  casual  and  transient 
meetings,  they  can  but  deal  briefly  in  commonplaces.  They  present 
but  the  cold  superficies  of  character — its  rich  and  genial  qualities 
have  no  time  to  be  warmed  into  a  flow. 

It  is  in  the  country  that  the  Englishman  gives  scope  to  his  natural 


54  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

feelings.  H«  breaks  loose  gladly  from  the  cold  formalities  and 
negative  civilities  of  town  ;  throws  off  his  habits  of  shy  reserve,  and 
becomes  joyous  and  free-hearted.  He  manages  to  collect  round 
him  all  the  conveniences  and  elegancies  of  polite  life,  and  to  ban 
ish  its  restraints.  His  country-seat  abounds  with  every  requisite, 
either  for  studious  retirement,  tasteful  gratification,  or  rural  exercise, 
Books,  paintings,  music,  horses,  dogs,  and  sporting  implements  of 
all  kinds,  are  at  hand.  He  puts  no  constraint  either  upon  his  guests 
or  himself,  but  in  the  true  spirit  of  hospitality  provides  the  means 
of  enjoyment,  and  leaves  every  one  to  partake  according  to  his 
inclination. 

The  taste  of  the  English  in  the  cultivation  of  land,  and  in  what 
is  called  landscape  gardening,  is  unrivalled.  They  have  studied 
nature  intently,  and  discover  an  exquisite  sense  of  her  beautiful 
forms  and  harmonious  combinations.  Those  charms,  which  in 
other  countries  she  lavishes  in  wild  solitudes,  are  here  assembled 
round  the  haunts  of  domestic  life.  They  seem  to  have  caught  her 
coy  and  furtive  graces,  and  spread  them  like  witchery  about  their 
rural  abodes. 

Nothing  can  be  more  imposing  than  the  magnificence  of  English 
park  scenery.  Vast  lawns  that  extend  like  sheets  of  vivid  green, 
with  here  and  there  clumps  of  gigantic  trees,  heaping  up  rich  piles 
of  foliage  :  the  solemn  pomp  of  groves  and  woodland  glades,  with 
the  deer  trooping  in  silent  herds  across  them ;  the  hare,  bounding 
away  to  the  covert;  or  the  pheasant,  suddenly  bursting  upon  the 
wing :  the  brook,  taught  to  wind  in  natural  meanderings,  or  expand 
into  a  glassy  lake  :  the  sequestered  pool,  reflecting  the  quivering 
trees,  with  the  yellow  leaf  sleeping  on  its  bosom,  and  the  trout 
roaming  fearlessly  about  its  limpid  waters  ;  while  some  rustic  temple 
or  sylvan  statue,  grown  green  and  dank  with  age,  gives  an  air  of 
classic  sanctity  to  the  seclusion. 

These  are  but  a  few  of  the  features  of  park  scenery  ;  but  what 
most  delights  me,  is  the  creative  talent  with  which  the  English  dec 
orate  the  unostentatious  abodes  of  middle  life.  The  rudest  habita 
tion,  the  most  unpromising  and  scanty  portion  of  land,  in  the  hands 
of  an  Englishman  of  taste,  becomes  a  little  paradise.  With  a 
nicely  discriminating  eye,  he  seizes  at  once  upon  its  capabilities, 
and  pictures  in  his  mind  the  future  landscape.  The  sterile  spot 
grows  into  loveliness  under  his  hand  ;  and  yet  the  operations  of  art 
which  produce  the  effect  are  scarcely  to  be  perceived.  The  cher 
ishing  and  training  of  some  trees ;  the  cautious  pruning  of  others; 
the  nice  distribution  of  flowers  and  plants  of  tender  and  graceful 
foliage  ;  the  introduction  of  a  green  slope  of  velvet  turf;  the  par- 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND.  4$ 

tial  opening  to  a  peep  of  blue  distance,  or  silver  gleam  of  water: 
all  these  managed  with  a  delicate  tact,  a  pervading  yet  quiet  assid 
uity,  like  the  magic  touchings  with  which  a  painter  finishes  up  a 
favorite  picture. 

The  residence  of  people  of  fortune  and  refinement  in  the  country 
has  diffused  a  degree  of  taste  and  elegance  in  rural  economy,  that 
descends  to  the  lowest  class.  The  very  laborer,  with  his  thatched 
cottage  and  narrow  slip  of  ground,  attends  to  their  embellishment. 
The  trim  hedge,  the  grass  plot  before  the  door,  the  little  flower-bed 
bordered  with  snug  box,  the  woodbine  trained  up  against  the  wall, 
and  hanging  its  blossoms  about  the  lattice,  the  pot  of  flowers  in 
the  window,  the  holly,  providently  planted  about  the  house,  to  cheat 
winter  of  its  dreariness,  and  to  throw  in  a  semblance  of  green 
summer  to  cheer  the  fireside :  all  these  bespeak  the  influence  of 
taste,  flowing  down  from  high  sources,  and  pervading  the  lowest 
levels  of  the  public  mind.  If  ever  Love,  as  poets  sing,  delights 
to  visit  a  cottage,  it  must  be  the  cottage  of  an  English  peasant. 

The  fondness  for  rural  life  among  the  higher  classes  of  the  English 
has  had  a  great  and  salutary  effect  upon  the  national  character.  I 
do  not  know  a  finer  race  of  men  than  the  English  gentlemen. 
Instead  of  the  softness  and  effeminacy  which  characterize  the  men 
of  rank  in  most  countries,  they  exhibit  a  union  of  elegance  and 
strength,  a  robustness  of  frame  and  freshness  of  complexion, 
which  I  am  inclined  to  attribute  to  their  living  so  much  in 
the  open  air,  and  pursuing  so  eagerly  the  invigorating  recrea 
tions  of  the  country.  These  hardy  exercises  produce  also  a 
healthful  tone  of  mind  and  spirits,  and  a  manliness  and  simplicity 
of  manners,  which  even  the  follies  and  dissipations  of  the  town 
cannot  easily  pervert,  and  can  never  entirely  destroy.  In  the 
country,  too,  the  different  orders  of  society  seem  to  approach  more 
freely,  to  be  more  disposed  to  blend  and  operate  favorably  upon 
each  other.  The  distinctions  between  them  do  not  appear  to  be  so 
marked  and  impassable  as  in  the  cities.  The  manner  in  which 
property  has  been  distributed  into  small  estates  and  farms  has  estab 
lished  a  regular  graduation  from  the  nobleman,  through  the  classes 
of  gentry,  small  landed  proprietors,  and  substantial  farmers,  down 
to  the  laboring  peasantry  ;  and  while  it  has  thus  branded  the  extremes 
of  society  together,  has  infused  into  each  intermediate  rank  a 
spirit  of  independence.  This,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  not  so 
universally  the  case  at  present  as  it  was  formerly  ;  the  larger  estates 
having,  in  late  years  of  distress,  absorbed  the  smaller,  and,  in  some 
parts  of  the  country,  almost  annihilated  the  sturdy  race  of  small 
farmers.  These,  however,  I  believe,  are  but  casual  break*  in  the 
general  system  I  have  mentioned 


56  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

In  rural  occupation  there  is  nothing  mean  and  debasing.  It 
leads  a  man  forth  among  scenes  of  natural  grandeur  and  beauty ; 
it  leaves  him  to  the  workings  of  his  own  mind,  operated  upon  by 
the  purest  and  most  elevating  of  external  influences.  Such  a  man 
/  may  be  simple  and  rough,  but  he  cannot  be  vulgar.  The  man  of 
refinement,  therefore,  finds  nothing  revolting  in  an  intercourse  with 
the  lower  orders  in  rural  life,  as  he  does  when  he  casually  mingles 
with  the  lower  orders  of  cities.  He  lays  aside  his  distance  and 
reserve,  and  is  glad  to  waive  the  distinctions  of  rank,  and  to  enter 
into  the  honest,  heartfelt  enjoyments  of  common  life.  Indeed,  the 
very  amusements  of  the  country  bring  men  more  and  more 
together  ;  and  the  sound  of  hound  and  horn  blend  all  feelings  into 
harmony.  I  believe  this  is  one  great  reason  why  the  nobility  and 
gentry  are  more  popular  among  the  inferior  orders  in  England  than 
they  are  in  any  other  country  ;  and  why  the  latter  have  endured 
so  many  excessive  pressures  and  extremities,  without  repining  more 
generally  at  the  unequal  distribution  of  fortune  and  privilege. 

To  this  mingling  of  cultivated  and  rustic  society  may  also  be 
attributed  the  rural  feeling  that  runs  through  British  literature  ;  the 
frequent  use  of  illustrations  from  rural  life ;  those  incomparable 
descriptions  of  nature  that  abound  in  the  British  poets,  that  have 
continued  down  from  "  the  Flower  and  the  Leaf "  of  Chaucer,  and 
have  brought  into  our  closets  all  the  freshness  and  fragrance  of  the 
dewy  landscape.  The  pastoral  writers  of  other  countries  appear  as 
if  they  had  paid  nature  an  occasional  visit,  and  become  acquainted 
with  her  general  charms;  but  the  British  poets  have  lived  and 
revelled  with  her — they  have  wooed  her  in  her  most  secret  haunts 
— they  have  watched  her  minutest  caprices.  A  spray  could  not 
tremble  in  the  breeze — a  leaf  could  not  rustle  to  the  ground — a 
diamond  drop  could  not  patter  in  the  stream — a  fragrance  could 
not  exhale  from  the  humble  violet,  nor  a  daisy  unfold  its  crimson 
tints  to  the  morning,  but  it  has  been  noticed  by  these  impassioned 
and  delicate  observers,  and  wrought  up  into  some  beautiful 
morality. 

The  effect  of  this  devotion  of  elegant  minds  to  rural  occupations 
has  been  wonderful  on  the  face  of  the  country.  A  great  part  of 
the  island  is  rather  level,  and  would  be  monotonous  were  it  not  for 
the  charms  of  culture :  but  it  is  studded  and  gemmed,  as  it  were, 
with  castles  and  palaces,  and  embroidered  with  parks  and  gardens. 
It  does  not  abound  in  grand  and  sublime  prospects,  but  rather  in 
little  home  scenes  of  rural  repose  and  sheltered  quiet.  Every 
antique  farm-house  and  moss-grown  cottage  is  a  picture  :  and  as 
the  roads  are  continually  winding,  and  the  view  is  shut  in  by  groves 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND.  tf 

and  hedges,  the  eye  is  delighted  by  a  continual  succession  of  small 
landscapes  of  captivating  loveliness. 

The  great  daarm,  however,  of  English  scenery  is  the  moral  feel 
ing  that  seems  to  pervade  it.  It  is  associated  in  the  mind  with 
ideas  of  order,  of  quiet,  of  sober  well-estaolished  principles,  of 
lioary  usage  and  reverend  custom.  Everything  seems  to  be  the 
growth  of  ages  of  regular  and  peaceful  existence.  The  old  church 
of  remote  architecture,  with  its  low,  massive  portal;  its  gothic 
tower;  its  windows  rich  with  tracery  and  painted  glass,  in  scrupu 
lous  preservation;  its  stately  monuments  of  warriors  and  worthies 
of  the  olden  time,  ancestors  of  the  present  lords  of  the  soil  ;  its 
tombstones,  recording  successive  generations  of  sturdy  yeomanry, 
whose  progeny  still  plough  the  same  fields,  and  kneel  at  the  same 
altar — the  parsonage,  a  quaint,  irregular  pile,  partly  antiquated, 
but  repaired  and  altered  in  the  tastes  of  various  ages  and  occupants 
— the  stile  and  footpath  leading  from  the  churchyard,  across 
pleasant  fields,  and  along  shady  hedge-rows,  according  to  an 
immemorial  right  of  way — the  neighboring  village,  with  its  vener 
able  cottages,  its  public  green  sheltered  by  trees,  under  which  the 
forefathers  of  the  present  race  have  sported — the  antique  family 
mansion,  standing  apart  in  some  little  rural  domain,  but  looking 
down  with  a  protecting  air  on  the  surrounding  scene  :  all  these 
common  features  of  English  landscape  evince  a  calm  and  settled 
security  and  hereditary  transmission  of  home-bred  virtues  and 
local  attachments,  that  speak  deeply  and  touchingly  for  the  moral 
character  of  the  nation. 

It  is  a  pleasing  sight  of  a  Sunday  morning,  when  the  bell  is  send 
ing  its  sober  melody  across  the  quiet  fields,  to  behold  the  peasantry 
in  their  best  finery,  with  ruddy  faces  and  modest  cheerfulness, 
thronging  tranquilly  along  the  green  lanes  to  church  ;  but  it  is  still 
more  pleasing  to  see  them  in  the  evenings,  gathering  about  their 
cottage  doors,  and  appearing  to  exult  in  the  humble  comforts  and 
embellishments  which  their  own  hands  have  spread  around  them. 

It  is  this  sweet  home-feeling,  this  settled  repose  of  affection  in 
the  domestic  scene,  that  is,  after  all,  the  parent  of  the  steadiest 
virtues  and  purest  enjoyments  ;  and  I  cannot  close  these  desultory 
remarks  better  than  by  quoting  the  words  of  a  modern  English 
poet,  who  has  depicted  it  with  remarkable  felicity  : 

Through  each  gradation,  from  the  castled  hall, 
The  city  dome,  the  villa  crown' d  with  shade, 
But  chief  from  modest  mansions  numberless, 
In  town  or  hamlet,  shelt'ring  middle  life, 
Down  to  the  cottaged  vale,  and  straw  roof  d  shed; 


58  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

This  western  isle  hath  long  been  famed  for  scenes 
Where  bliss  domestic  finds  a  dwelling-place : 
Domestic  bliss,  that,  like  a  harmless  dove 
(Honor  and  sweet  endearment  keeping  guard). 
Can  centre  in  a  little  quiet  nest 
All  that  desire  would  fly  for  through  the  earth 
That  can,  the  world  eluding,  be  itself 
A  world  enjoy'd  ;  that  wants  no  witnesses 
But  its  own  sharers,  and  approving  heaven  ; 
That,  like  a  flower  deep  hid  in  the  rocky  cleft, 
Smiles,  though  'tis  looking  only  at  the  sky.* 

*  From  a  Poem  on  the  death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte,  by  the  Reverend 
Eann Kennedy,  A.M. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 


I  never  heard 

Of  any  true  affection,  but  'twas  nipt 
With  care,  that,  like  the  caterpillar,  eats 
The  leaves  of  the  spring's  sweetest  book,  the  rose. 

MlDDLETON. 


ris  a  common  practice  with  those  who  have  outlived  the  suscep 
tibility  of  early  feeling,  or  have  been  brought  up  in  the  gay 
heartlessness  of  dissipated  life,  to  laugh  at  all  love  stories,  and  to 
treat  the  tales  of  romantic  passion  as  mere  fictions  of  novelists  and 
poets.  My  observations  on  human  nature  have  induced  me  to 
think  otherwise.  They  have  convinced  me,  that  however  the 
surface  of  the  character  may  be  chilled  and  frozen  by  the  cares  of 
the  world,  or  cultivated  into  mere  smiles  by  the  arts  of  society, 
still  there  are  dormant  fires  lurking  in  the  depths  of  the  coldest 
bosom,  which,  when  once  enkindled,  become  impetuous,  and  are 
sometimes  desolating  in  their  effects.  Indeed,  I  am  a  true  believer- 
in  the  blind  deity,  and  go  to  the  full  extent  of  his  doctrines.  Shall 
I  confess  it  ? — I  believe  in  broken  hearts,  and  the  possibility  of 
disappointed  love.  I  do  not,  however,  consider  it  a  malady  often 
fatal  to  my  own  sex ;  but  I  firmly  believe  that  it  withers  down 
many  a  lovely  woman  into  an  early  grave. 

Man  is  the  creature  of  interest  and  ambition.  His  nature  leads 
him  forth  into  the  struggle  and  bustle  of  the  world.  Love  is  but 
the  embellishment  of  his  early  life,  or  a  song  piped  in  the  intervals 
of  the  acts.  He  seeks  for  fame,  for  fortune,  for  space  in  the 
world's  thought,  and  dominion  over  his  fellow-men.  But  a 
woman's  whole  life  is  the  history  of  the  affections.  The  heart  is 


THE  BROKEN  HEAR  T.  59 

her  world  :  it  is  there  her  ambition  strives  for  empire  \  it  is  there 
her  avarice  seeks  for  hidden  treasures.  She  sends  forth  her 
sympathies  on  adventure  ;  she  embarks  her  whole  soul  in  the  traffic 
of  affection ;  and  if  shipwrecked,  her  case  is  hopeless — for  it  is  a 
bankruptcy  of  the  heart. 

To  a  man  the  disappointment  of  love  may  occasion  some  bitter 
pangs  :  it  wounds  some  feelings  of  tenderness — it  blasts  some 
prospects  of  felicity ;  but  he  is  an  active  being — he  may  dissipate 
his  thoughts  in  the  whirl  of  varied  occupation,  or  may  plunge  into 
the  tide  of  pleasure  ;  or,  if  the  scene  of  disappointment  be  too  full 
of  painful  associations,  he  can  shift  his  abode  at  will,  and  taking, 
as  it  were,  the  wings  of  the  morning,  can  "fly  to  the  uttermost  parts 
of  the  earth,  and  be  at  reft." 

But  woman's  is  comparatively  a  fixed,  a  secluded,  and  medita 
tive  life.  She  is  more  the  companion  of  her  own  thoughts  and 
feelings ;  and  if  they  are  turned  to  ministers  of  sorrow,  where  shall 
she  look  for  consolation  ?  Her  lot  is  to  be  wooed  and  won  ;  and 
if  unhappy  in  her  love,  her  heart  is  like  some  fortress  that  has  been 
captured,  and  sacked,  and  abandoned,  and  left  desolate. 

How  many  bright  eyes  grow  dim — how  many  soft  cheeks  grow 
pale — how  many  lovely  forms  fade  away  into  the  tomb,  and  none 
can  tell  the  cause  that  blighted  their  loveliness !  As  the  dove  will 
clasp  its  wings  to  its  side,  and  cover  and  conceal  the  arrow  that  is 
preying  on  its  vitals,  so  is  it  the  nature  of  woman  to  hide  from  the 
world  the  pangs  of  wounded  affection.  The  love  of  a  delicate 
female  is  always  sby  and  silent.  Even  when  fortunate,  she  scarcely 
breathes  it  to  herself;  but  when  otherwise,  she  buries  it  in  the 
recesses  of  her  bosom,  and  there  lets  it  cower  and  brood  among  the 
ruins  of  her  peace.  With  her  the  desire  of  the  heart  has  failed. 
The  great  charm  of  existence  is  at  an  end.  She  neglects  all  the 
cheerful  exercises  which  gladden  the  spirits,  quicken  the  pulses, 
and  send  the  tide  of  life  in  healthful  currents  through  the  veins. 
Her  rest  is  broken — the  sweet  refreshment  of  sleep  is  poisoned  by 
melancholy  dreams — "dry  sorrow  drinks  her  blood,"  until  her 
enfeebled  frame  sinks  under  the  slightest  external  injury.  Look  for 
her  after  a  little  while,  and  you  find  friendship  weeping  over  her 
untimely  grave,  and  wondering  that  one,  who  but  lately  glowed 
with  all  the  radiance  of  health  and  beauty,  should  so  speedily  be 
brought  down  to  "darkness  and  the  worm."  You  will  be  told  of 
some  wintry  chill,  some  casual  indisposition,  that  laid  her  low  ; — 
but  no  one  knows  of  the  mental  malady  which  previously  sapped 
b&.i'  strength,  and  made  her  so  easy  a  prey  to  the  spoiler. 

She  is  like  some  tender  tree,  the  pride  and  beauty  of  the  grove ; 


66  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

graceful  in  its  form,  bright  in  its  foliage,  but  with  the  worm  preying 
at  hs  heart.  We  find  it  suddenly  withering,  when  it  should  be 
most  fresh  and  luxuriant.  We  see  it  drooping  its  branches  to  the 
earth,  and  shedding  leaf  by  leaf,  until,  wasted  and  perished  away, 
it  falls  even  in  the  stillness  of  the  forest ;  and  as  we  muse  over  the 
beautiful  ruin,  we  strive  in  vain  to  recollect  the  blast  or  thunder 
bolt  that  could  have  smitten  it  with  decay. 

I  have  seen  many  instances  of  women  running  to  waste  and 
self-neglect,  and  disappearing  gradually  from  the  earth,  almost  as 
if  they  had  been  exhaled  to  heaven  ;  and  have  repeatedly  fancied 
that  I  could  trace  their  death  through  the  various  declensions  of 
consumption,  cold,  debility,  languor,  melancholy,  until  I  reached 
the  first  symptom  of  disappointed  love.  But  an  instance  of  the 
kind  was  lately  told  to  me  ;  the  circumstances  are  well  known  in 
the  country  where  they  happened,  and  I  shall  but  give  them  in  the 
manner  in  which  they  were  related. 

Every  one  must  recollect  the  tragical  story  of  young  E ,  the 

Irish  patriot ;  it  was  too  touching  to  be  soon  forgotten.  During  the 
troubles  in  Ireland,  he  was  tried,  condemned,  and  executed  on  a 
charge  of  treason.  His  fate  made  a  deep  impression  on  public 
sympathy.  He  was  so  young — so  intelligent — so  generous — so 
brave — so  everything  that  we  are  apt  to  like  in  a  young  man.  His 
conduct  under  trial,  too,  was  so  lofty  and  intrepid.  The  noble 
indignation  with  which  he  repelled  the  charge  of  treason 
against  his  country — the  eloquent  vindication  of  his  name — and 
his  pathetic  appeal  to  posterity,  in  the  hopeless  hour  of  condem 
nation — all  these  entered  deeply  into  every  generous  bosom,  and 
even  his  enemies  lamented  the  stern  policy  that  dictated  his 
execution. 

But  there  was  one  heart  whose  anguish  it  would  be  impossible 
to  describe.  In  happier  days  and  fairer  fortunes,  he  had  won  the 
affections  of  a  beautiful  and  interesting  girl,  the  daughter  of  a  late 
celebrated  Irish  barrister.  She  loved  him  with  the  disinterested 
fervor  of  woman's  first  and  early  love.  When  every  worldly 
maxim  arrayed  itself  against  him  ;  when  blasted  in  fortune,  and 
disgrace  and  danger  darkened  around  his  name,  she  loved  him 
the  more  ardently  for  his  very  sufferings.  If,  then,  his  fate  could 
awaken  the  sympathy  even  of  his  foes,  what  must  have  been  the 
agony  of  her  whose  whole  soul  was  occupied  by  his  image  !  Let 
those  tell  who  have  had  the  portals  of  the  tomb  suddenly  closed 
between  them  and  the  being  they  most  loved  on  earth — who  have 
sat  at  its  threshold,  as  one  shut  out  in  a  cold  and  lonely  world 
whence  all  that  was  most  lovely  and  loving  had  departed. 


THE  BR  OKEN  HEAR  T.  6l 

But  then  the  horrors  of  such  a  grave !  so  frightful,  so  dishon 
ored  !  there  was  nothing  for  memory  to  dwell  on  that  could  soothe 
the  pang  of  separation — none  of  those  tender  though  melancholy 
circumstances,  which  endear  the  parting  scene — nothing  to  melt 
sorrow  into  those  blessed  tears,  sent  like  the  dews  of  heaven,  to 
revive  the  heart  in  the  parting  hour  of  anguish. 

To  render  her  widowed  situation  more  desolate,  she  had  incurred 
her  father's  displeasure  by  her  unfortunate  attachment,  and  was  an 
exile  from  the  paternal  roof.  But  could  the  sympathy  and  kind 
offices  of  friends  have  reached  a  spirit  so  shocked  and  driven  in  by 
horror,  she  would  have  experienced  no  want  of  consolation,  for  the 
Irish  are  a  people  of  quick  and  generous  sensibilities.  The  most 
delicate  and  cherishing  attentions  were  paid  her  by  families  of 
wealth  and  distinction.  She  was  led  into  society,  and  they  tried 
by  all  kinds  of  occupation  and  amusement  to  dissipate  her  grief, 
and  wean  her  from  the  tragical  story  of  her  lover.  But  it  was  all 
in  vain.  There  are  some  strokes  of  calamity  which  scathe  and 
scorch  the  soul — which  penetrate  to  the  vital  seat  of  happiness — 
and  blast  it,  never  again  to  put  forth  bud  or  blossom.  She  never 
objected  to  frequent  the  haunts  of  pleasure,  but  was  as  much  alone 
there  as  in  the  depths  of  solitude ;  walking  about  in  a  sad  reverie, 
apparently  unconscious  of  the  world  around  her.  She  carried  with 
her  an  inward  woe  that  mocked  at  all  the  blandishments  of  friend 
ship,  and  "heeded  not  the  song  of  the  charmer,  charm  he  never 
so  wisely." 

The  person  who  told  me  her  story  had  seen  her  at  a  masquerade. 
There  can  be  no  exhibition  of  far-gone  wretchedness  more  striking 
and  painful  than  to  meet  it  in  such  a  scene.  To  find  it  wandering 
like  a  spectre,  lonely  and  joyless,  where  all  arc-'nid  is  gay — to  see 
it  dressed  out  in  the  trappings  of  mirth,  and  looking  so  wan  and 
wobegone,  as  if  it  had  tried  in  vain  to  cheat  the  poor  heart  into  a 
momentary  forgetfulness  of  sorrow.  After  strolling  through  the 
splendid  rooms  and  giddy  crowd  with  an  air  of  utter  abstraction, 
she  sat  herself  down  on  the  steps  of  an  orchestra,  and,  looking 
about  for  some  time  with  a  vacant  air,  that  showed  her  insensibility 
to  the  garish  scene,  she  began,  with  the  capriciousness  of  a  sickly 
heart,  to  warble  a  little  plaintive  air.  She  had  an  exquisite  voice  ; 
but  on  this  occasion  it  was  so  simple,  so  touching,  it  breathed  forth 
such  a  soul  of  wretchedness,  that  she  drew  a  crowd  mute  and  silent 
around  her,  and  melted  every  one  into  tears. 

The  story  of  one  so  true  and  tender  could  not  but  excite  great 
interest  in  a  country  remarkable  for  enthusiasm.  It  completely 
won  the  heart  of  a  brave  officer,  who  paid  his  ad'irescts  to  her. 


62  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and  thought  that  one  so  true  to  the  dead  could  not  but  prove  affeo 
tionate  to  the  living.  She  declined  his  attentions,  for  her  thoughts 
were  irrevocably  engrossed  by  the  memory  of  her  former  lover. 
He,  however,  persisted  in  his  suit.  He  solicited  not  her  tenderness: 
but  her  esteem.  He  was  assisted  by  her  conviction  of  his  worth, 
and  her  sense  of  her  own  destitute  and  dependent  situation,  for  she 
was  existing  on  the  kindness  of  friends.  In  a  word,  he  at  lengtl 
succeeded  in  gaining  her  hand,  though  with  the  solemn  assurance 
that  her  heart  was  unalterably  another's. 

He  took  her  with  him  to  Sicily,  hoping  that  a  change  of  scene 
might  wear  out  the  remembrance  of  early  woes.  She  was  an 
amiable  and  exemplary  wife,  and  made  an  effort  to  be  a  happy 
one ;  but  nothing  could  cure  the  silent  and  devouring  melancholy 
that  had  entered  into  her  very  soul.  She  wasted  away  in  a  slow, 
but  hopeless  decline,  and  at  length  sunk  into  the  grave,  the  victim 
of  a  broken  heart. 

It  was  on  her  that  Moore,  the  distinguished  Irish  poet,  composec 
the  following  lines : 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps, 

And  lovers  around  her  are  sighing: 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze,  and  weeps, 

For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying. 

She  sings  the  wild  songs  of  her  dear  native  plains, 

Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking — 
Ah!  little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her  strains, 

How  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  breaking ! 

He  had  lived  for  his  love — for  his  country  he  died, 
They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  him — 

Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried, 
Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  himl 

Oh !  make  her  a  grave  where  the  sunbeams  rest, 
When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow ; 

They'll  shine  o'er  her  sleep,  like  a  smile  from  the  west* 
From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow ! 


THE  ART  OF~ BOOK-MAKING,  63 


THE  ART  OF  BOOK-MAKING. 

"If  that  severe  doom  of  Synesius  be  true— 'It  is  a  greater  offence  to »teal 
dead  men's  labor,  tlian  their  clothes,'  what  shall  become  of  most  writers! " 

BURTON'S  ANATOMY  or  MELANCHOLY. 

I  HAVE  often  wondered  at  the  extreme  fecundity  of  the  press, 
and  how  it  comes  to  pass  that  so  many  heads,  on  which  nature 
seemed  to  have  inflicted  the  curse  of  barrenness,  should  teem 
with  voluminous  productions.     As  a  man  travels  on,  however,  in  the 
iourney  of  life,  his  objects  of  wonder  daily  diminish,  and  he  is  con 
tinually  finding  out  some  very  simple  cause  for  some  great  matter 
of  marvel.     Thus  have  I  chanced,  in  my  peregrinations  about  this 
great  metropolis,  to  blunder  upon  a  scene  which  unfolded  to  me 
some  of  the  mysteries  of  the  book-making  craft,  and  at  once  put  an 
end  to  my  astonishment. 

I  was  one  summer's  day  loitering  through  the  great  saloons  of 
the  British  Museum,  with  that  listlessness  with  which  one  is  apt  to 
saunter  about  a  museum  in  warm  weather  ;  sometimes  lolling  over 
the  glass  cases  of  minerals,  sometimes  studying  the  hieroglyphics 
on  an  Egyptian  mummy,  and  sometimes  trying,  with  nearly  equal 
success,  to  comprehend  the  allegorical  paintings  on  the  lofty  ceil 
ings.  Whilst  I  was  gazing  about  in  this  idle  way,  my  attention  was 
attracted  to  a  distant  door,  at  the  end  of  a  suite  of  apartments.  It 
was  closed,  but  every  now  and  then  it  would  open,  and  some 
strange-favored  being,  generally  clothed  in  black,  would  steal 
forth,  and  glide  through  the  rooms,  without  noticing  any  of  the 
surrounding  objects.  There  was  an  air  of  mystery  about. this  that 
piqued  my  languid  curiosity,  and  I  determined  to  attempt  the  pas 
sage  of  that  strait,  and  to  explore  the  unknown  regions  beyond. 
The  door  yielded  to  my  hand,  with  that  facility  with  which  the 
portals  of  enchanted  castles  yield  to  the  adventurous  knight-errant. 
I  found  myself  in  a  spacious  chamber,  surrounded  with  great  cases 
of  venerable  books.  Above  the  cases,  and  just  under  the  cornice, 
were  arranged  a  great  number  of  black-looking  portraits  of  ancient 
authors.  About  the  room  were  placed  long  tables,  with  stands  for 
reading  and  writing,  at  which  sat  many  pale,  studious  personages, 
poring  intently  over  dusty  volumes,  rummaging  among  mouldy 
manuscripts,  and  taking  copious  notes  of  their  contents.  A  hushed 
stillness  reigned  through  this  mysterious  apartment,  excepting  that 


64  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

you  might  hear  the  racing  of  pens  over  sheets  of  paper,  or  occa* 
sionally,  the  deep  sigh  of  one  of  these  sages,  as  he  shifted  his  posi 
tion  to  turn  over  the  page  of  an  old  folio ;  doubtless  arising  from 
that  hollowness  and  flatulency  incident  to  learned  research. 

Now  and  then  one  of  these  personages  would  write  something 
on  a  small  slip  of  paper,  and  ring  a  bell,  whereupon  a  familiar 
would  appear,  take  the  paper  in  profound  silence,  glide  out  of  the 
room,  and  return  shortly  loaded  with  ponderous  tomes,  upon  which 
the  other  would  fall  tooth  and  nail  with  famished  voracity.  I  had 
no  longer  a  doubt  that  I  had  happened  upon  a  body  of  magi, 
deeply  engaged  in  the  study  of  occult  sciences.  The  scene 
reminded  me  of  an  old  Arabian  tale,  of  a  philosopher  shut  up  in 
an  enchanted  library,  in  the  bosom  of  a  mountain,  which  opened 
only  once  a  year ;  where  he  made  the  spirits  of  the  place  bring 
him  books  of  all  kinds  of  dark  knowledge,  so  that  at  the  end  of 
the  year,  when  the  magic  portal  once  more  swung  open  on  its 
hinges,  he  issued  forth  so  versed  in  forbidden  lore  as  to  be  able  to 
soar  above  the  heads  of  the  multitude,  and  to  control  the  powers 
of  nature. 

My  curiosity  being  now  fully  aroused,  I  whispered  to  one  of  th« 
familiars,  as  he  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  and  begged  an  inter 
pretation  of  the  strange  scene  before  me.  A  few  words  were  suffi 
cient  for  the  purpose.  I  found  that  these  mysterious  personages, 
whom  I  had  mistaken  for  magi,  were  principally  authors,  and  in 
the  very  act  of  manufacturing  books.  I  was,  in  fact,  in  the  read 
ing-room  of  the  great  British  Library — an  immense  collection  of 
volumes  of  all  ages  and  languages,  many  of  which  are  now  for 
gotten,  and  most  of  which  are  seldon  read  :  one  of  these  seques 
tered  pools  of  obsolete  literature,  to  which  modern  authors  repair, 
and  draw  buckets  full  of  classic  lore,  or  "  pure  English,  undefiled," 
wherewith  to  swell  their  own  scanty  rills  of  thought. 

Being  now  in  possession  of  the  secret,  I  sat  down  in  a  corner,  and 
watched  the  process  of  this  book  manufactory.  I  noticed  one  lean, 
bilious-looking  wight,  who  sought  none  but  the  most  worm-eaten 
volumes,  printed  in  black-letter.  He  was  evidently  constructing 
some  work  of  profound  erudition,  that  would  be  purchased  by 
every  man  who  wished  to  be  thought  learned,  placed  upon  a  con 
spicuous  shelf  of  his  library,  or  laid  open  upon  his  table  ;  but  never 
read.  I  observed  him,  now  and  then,  draw  a  large  fragment  of 
biscuit  out  of  his  pocket,  and  gnaw  ;  whether  it  was  his  dinner,  or 
whether  he  was  endeavoring  to  keep  off  that  exhaustion  of  the 
stomach  produced  by  much  pondering  over  dry  works,  I  leave  to 
fcarder  students  than  myself  to  determine. 


THE  ART  OF  BO OK-MAKING.  65 

There  was  one  dapper  little  gentleman  in  bright-colored  clothes, 
with  a  chirping,  gossiping  expression  of  countenance,  who  had  all 
the  appearance  of  an  anthor  on  good  terms  with  his  bookseller. 
After  considering  him  attentively,  I  recognized  in  him  a  diligent 
getter-up  of  miscellaneous  works,  which  bustled  off  well  with  the 
trade.  I  was  curious  to  see  how  he  manufactured  his  wares.  He 
made  more  stir  and  show  of  business  than  any  of  the  others ;  dip 
ping  into  various  books,  fluttering  over  the  leaves  of  manuscripts, 
taking  a  morsel  out  of  one,  a  morsel  out  of  another,  "line  upon 
line,  precept  upon  precept,  here  a  little  and  there  a  little."  The 
contents  of  his  book  seemed  to  be  as  heterogeneous  as  those  of  the 
witches'  caldron  in  Macbeth.  It  was  here  a  finger  and  there  a 
thumb,  toe  of  frog  and  blind-worm's  sting,  with  his  own  gossip 
poured  in  like  "baboon's  blood,"  to  make  the  medley  "slab  and 
good." 

After  all,  thought  I,  may  not  this  pilfering  disposition  be  implanted 
in  authors  for  wise  purposes ;  may  it  not  be  the  way  in  which 
Providence  has  taken  care  that  the  seeds  of  knowledge  and  wis 
dom  shall  be  preserved  from  age  to  age,  in  spite  of  the  inevitable 
decay  of  the  works  in  which  they  were  first  produced  ?  We  see 
ihat  nature  has  wisely,  though  whimsically,  provided  for  the  con- 
veyance  of  seeds  from  clime  to  clime,  in  the  maws  of  certain 
birds;  so  that  animals,  which,  in  themselves,  are  little  better  than 
carrion,  and  apparently  the  lawless  plunderers  of  the  orchard  and 
the  cornfield,  are,  in  fact,  nature's  carriers  to  disperse  and  perpet 
uate  her  blessings.  In  like  manner,  the  beauties  and  fine  thoughts 
of  ancient  and  obsolete  authors  are  caught  up  by  these  flights  of 
predatory  writers,  and  cast  forth  again  to  flourish  and  bear  fruit  in 
a  remote  and  distant  tract  of  time.  Many  of  their  works,  also, 
undergo  a  kind  of  metempsychosis,  and  spring  up  under  new  forms. 
What  was  formerly  a  ponderous  history  revives  in  the  shape  of  a 
romance — an  old  legend  changes  into  a  modern  play — and  a  sober 
philosophical  treatise  furnishes  the  body  for  a  whole  series  of  bounc 
ing  and  sparkling  essays.  Thus  it  is  in  the  clearing  of  our  Ameri 
can  woodlands ;  where  we  burn  down  a  forest  of  stately  pines,  a 
progeny  of  dwarf  oaks  start  up  in  their  place  :  and  we  never  see 
the  prostrate  trunk  of  a  tree  mouldering  into  soil,  but  it  gives  birth 
to  a  whole  tribe  of  fungi. 

Let  us  not,  then,  lament  over  the  decay  and  oblivion  into  which 
ancient  writers  descend ;  they  do  but  submit  to  the  great  law  of 
nature,  which  declares  that  all  sublunary  shapes  of  matter  shall 
be  limited  in  their  duration,  but  which  decrees,  also,  that  their 
elements  shall  never  perish.  Generation  after  generation,  both  in 
3 


66  THE  SKETCH-J5  O  OK. 

animal  and  vegetable  life,  passes  away,  but  the  vital  principle  is 
transmitted  to  posterity,  and  the  species  continue  to  flourish.  Thus, 
also,  do  authors  beget  authors,  and  having  produced  a  numerous 
progeny,  in  a  good  old  age  they  sleep  with  their  fathers,  that  is  to 
say,  with  the  authors  who  preceded  them — and  from  whom  they 
had  stolen. 

Whilst  I  was  indulging  in  these  rambling  fancies,  I  had  leaned 
my  head  against  a  pile  of  reverend  folios.  Whether  it  was  owing 
to  the  soporific  emanations  from  these  works  ;  or  to  the  profound 
quiet  of  the  room  ;  or  to  the  lassitude  arising  from  much  wander 
ing ;  or  to  an  unlucky  habit  of  napping  at  improper  times  and 
places,  with  which  I  am  grievously  afflicted,  so  it  was,  that  I  fell 
into  a  doze.  Still,  however,  my  imagination  continued  busy,  and, 
indeed,  the  same  scene  remained  before  my  mind's  eye,  only  alittle 
changed  in  some  of  the  details.  I  dreamt  that  the  chamber  was 
still  decorated  with  the  portraits  of  ancient  authors,  but  that  the 
number  was  increased.  The  long  tables  had  disappeared,  and,  in 
place  of  the  sage  magi,  I  beheld  a  ragged,  threadbare  throng, 
such  as  may  be  seen  plying  about  the  great  repository  of  cast-off 
clothes,  Monmouth  Street.  Whenever  they  seized  upon  a  book,  by 
one  of  those  incongrutles  common  to  dreams,  methought  it  turned 
into  a  garment  of  foreign  or  antique  fashion,  with  which  they  pros 
ceeded  to  equip  themselves.  I  noticed,  however,  that  no  one  pre 
tended  to  clothe  himself  from  any  particular  suit,  but  took  a  sleeve 
from  one,  a  cape  from  another,  a  skirt  from  a  third,  thus  decking 
himself  out  piecemeal,  while  some  of  his  original  rags  would  peep 
out  from  among  his  borrowed  finery. 

There  was  a  portly,  rosy,  well-fed  parson,  whom  I  observed 
ogling  several  mouldy  polemical  writers  through  an  eye-glass.  He 
soon  contrived  to  slip  on  the  voluminous  mantle  of  one  of  the  old 
fathers,  and,  having  purloined  the  gray  beard  »of  another,  en 
deavored  to  look  exceedingly  wise  ;  but  the  smirking  commonplace 
of  his  countenance  set  at  naught  all  the  trappings  of  wisdom.  One 
sickly -looking  gentleman  was  busied  embroidering  a  very  flimsy 
garment  with  gold  thread  drawn  out  of  several  old  court-dresses  of 
the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  Another  had  trimmed  himself  mag 
nificently  from  an  illuminated  manuscript,  had  stuck  a  nosegay  in 
his  bosom,  culled  from  "The  Paradise  of  Daintie  Devices,"  and 
having  put  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  hat  on  one  side  of  his  head,  strutted 
off  with  an  exquisite  air  of  vulgar  elegance.  A  third,  who  was  but 
of  puny  dimensions,  had  bolstered  himself  out  bravely  with  the 
spoils  from  several  obscure  tracts  of  philosophy,  so  that  he  had  a 
very  imposing  front ;  but  he  was  lamentably  tattered  in  rear,  And  I 


THE  AR  T  OF  BOOK-MAKING.  67 

perceived  that  he  had  patched  his  small-clothes  with  scraps  of 
parchment  from  a  Latin  author. 

There  were  some  well-dressed  gentlemen,  it  is  true,  who  only 
helped  themselves  to  a  gem  or  so,  which  sparkled  among  their  own 
ornaments,  without  eclipsing  them.  Some,  too,  seemed  to  con 
template  the  costumes  of  the  old  writers,  merely  to  imbibe  their 
principles  of  taste,  and  to  catch  their  air  and  spirit ;  but  I  grieve  te 
say,  that  too  many  were  apt  to  array  themselves  from  top  to  toe  in 
the  patchwork  manner  I  have  mentioned.  I  shall  not  omit  to 
speak  of  one  genius,  in  drab  breeches  and  gaiters,  and  an  Arca 
dian  hat,  who  had  a  violent  propensity  to  the  pastoral,  but  whose 
rural  wanderings  had  been  confined  to  the  classic  haunts  of  Prim 
rose  Hill,  and  the  solitudes  of  the  Regent's  Park.  He  had  decked 
himself  in  wreaths  and  ribbons  from  all  the  old  pastoral  poets,  and, 
hanging  his  head  on  one  side,  went  about  with  a  fantastical  lack-a- 
daisical  air,  "babbling  about  green  fields."  But  the  personage 
that  most  struck  my  attention  was  a  pragmatical  old  gentleman,  in 
clerical  robes,  with  a  remarkably  large  and  square,  but  bald  head. 
He  entered  the  room  wheezing  and  puffing,  elbowed  his  way 
through  the  throng,  with  a  look  of  sturdy  self-confidence,  and  hav- 
kig  laid  hands  upon  a  thick  Greek  quarto,  clapped  it  upon  his  head 
and  swept  majestically  away  in  a  formidable  frizzled  wig. 

In  the  height  of  this  literary  masquerade,  a  cry  suddenly  re-> 
sounded  from  every  side,  of  "Thieves!  thieves!  "  I  looked,  and 
lo !  the  portraits  about  the  wall  became  animated !  The  old 
authors  thrust  out,  first  a  head,  then  a  shoulder,  from  the  canvas, 
looked  down  curiously  for  an  instant  upon  the  motley  throng,  and 
then  descended  with  fury  in  their  eyes,  to  claim  their  rifled  property. 
The  scene  of  scampering  and  hubbub  that  ensued  baffles  all 
description.  The  unhappy  culprits  endeavored  in  vain  to  escape 
with  their  plunder.  On  one  side  might  be  seen  half  a  dozen  old 
monks,  stripping  a  modern  professor ;  on  another,  there  was  sad 
devastation  carried  into  the  ranks  of  modern  dramatic  writers. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  side  by  side,  raged  round  the  field  like 
Castor  and  Pollux,  and  sturdy  Ben  Jonson  enacted  more  wonders 
than  when  a  volunteer  with  the  army  in  Flanders.  As  to  the 
dapper  little  compiler  of  farragos,  mentioned  some  time  since,  he 
had  arrayed  himself  in  as  many  patches  and  colors  as  Harlequin, 
and  there  was  as  fierce  a  contention  of  claimants  about  him,  as 
about  the  dead  body  of  Patroclus.  I  was  grieved  to  see  many 
men,  to  whom  I  had  been  accustomed  to  look  up  with  awe  and  rev 
erence,  fain  to  steal  off  with  scarce  a  rag  to  cover  their  nakedness. 
Just  then  my  eye  was  caught  by  the  pragmatical  old  gentleman  it 


68  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  Greek  grizzled  wig,  who  was  scrambling  away  in  sore  affright 
with  half  a  score  of  authors  in  full  cry  after  him  !  They  were  close 
upon  his  haunches :  in  a  twinkling  off  went  his  wig  ;  at  every  turn 
some  strip  of  raiment  was  peeled  away ;  until  in  a  few  moments, 
from  his  domineering  pomp,  he  shrunk  into  a  little,  pursy, 
"  chopped  bald  shot,"  and  made  his  exit  with  only  a  few  tags  and 
rags  fluttering  at  his  back. 

There  was  something  so  ludicrous  in  the  catastrophe  of  this 
learned  Theban,  that  I  burst  into  an  immoderate  fit  of  laughter, 
which  broke  the  whole  illusion.  The  tumult  and  the  scuffle  were 
at  an  end.  The  chamber  resumed  its  usual  appearance.  The  old 
authors  shrunk  back  into  their  picture-frames,  and  hung  in  shadowy 
solemnity  along  the  walls.  In  short,  I  found  myself  wide  awake 
in  my  corner,  with  the  whole  assemblage  of  book-worms  gazing  at 
me  with  astonishment.  Nothing  of  the  dream  had  been  real  but 
my  burst  of  laughter,  a  sound  never  before  head  in  that  grave 
sanctuary,  and  so  abhorrent  to  the  ears  of  wisdom,  as  to  electrify 
}he  fraternity. 

The  librarian  now  stepped  up  to  me,  and  demanded  whether  I 
/iad  a  card  of  admission.  At  first  I  did  not  comprehend  him,  but 
I  soon  found  that  the  library  was  a  kind  of  literary  "preserve," 
subject  to  the  game-laws,  and  that  no  one  must  presume  to  hunt 
there  without  special  license  and  permission.  In  a  word,  I  stood 
convicted  of  being  an  arrant  poacher,  and  was  glad  to  make  a  pre 
cipitate  retreat,  lest  I  should  have  a  whole  pack  of  authors  let 
loose  upon  me. 


A  ROYAL  POET. 

Though  your  body  be  confined, 

And  soft  love  a  prisoner  bound, 
Yet  the  beauty  of  your  mind 
Neither  check  nor  chain  hath  found, 
Look  out  nobly,  then,  and  dare 
Even  the  fetters  that  you  wear, 

FLETCHER. 

ON  a  soft  sunny  morning  in  the  genial  month  of  May,  I  made  an 
excursion  to  Windsor  Castle.     It  is  a  place  full  of  storied  and 
poetical  associations.     The  very  external  aspect  of  the  proud 
old  pile  is  enough  to  inspire  high  thought.     It  rears  its  inegulal 
walls  and  massive  towers,  like  a  mural  crown,  round  the  brow  of  a 
lofty  ridge,  waves  its  royal  banner  in  the  clouds    and  looks  down, 
with  a  lordly  air,  upon  the  surrounding  world. 


A  ROYAL  POET.  69 

On  this  morning  the  weather  was  of  that  voluptuous  vernal  kind, 
which  calls  forth  all  the  latent  romance  of  a  man's  temperament, 
filling  his  mind  with  music,  and  disposing  him  to  quote  poetry  and 
dream  of  beauty.  In  wandering  through  the  magnificent  saloons 
and  long  echoing  galleries  of  the  castle,  I  passed  with  indifference 
by  whole  rows  of  portraits  of  warriors  and  statesmen,  but  lingered 
in  the  chamber,  where  hang  the  likenesses  of  the  beauties  which 
graced  the  gay  court  of  Charles  the  Second ;  and  as  I  gazed  upon 
them,  depicted  with  amorous,  half-dishevelled  tresses,  and  the 
sleepy  eye  of  love,  I  blessed  the  pencil  of  Sir  Peter  Lely,  which 
had  thus  enabled  me  to  bask  in  the  reflected  rays  of  beauty.  In 
traversing  also  the  "large  green  courts,"  with  sunshine  beaming 
on  the  gray  walls,  and  glancing  along  the  velvet  turf,  my  mind  was 
engrossed  with  the  image  of  the  tender,  the  gallant,  but  hapless 
Surrey,  and  his  account  of  his  loiterings  about  them  in  his  stripling 
days,  when  enamored  of  the  Lady  Geraldine — 

"  With  eyes  cast  up  unto  the  maiden's  tower, 
With  e'asie  sighs,  such  as  men  draw  in  love." 

In  this  mood  of  mere  poetical  susceptibility,  I  visited  the  ancient 
Keep  of  the  Castle,  where  James  the  First  of  Scotland,  the  pride 
and  theme  of  Scottish  poets  and  historians,  was  for  many  years  of 
his  youth  detained  a  prisoner  of  state.  It  is  a  large  gray  tower, 
that  has  stood  the  brunt  of  ages,  and  is  still  in  good  preservation. 
It  stands  on  a  mound,  which  elevates  it  above  the  other  parts  of  the 
castle,  and  a  great  flight  of  steps  leads  to  the  interior.  In  the  arm 
ory,  a  Gothic  hall,  furnished  with  weapons  of  various  kinds  and 
ages,  I  was  shown  a  coat  of  armor  hanging  against  the  wall,  which 
had  once  belonged  to  James.  Hence  I  was  conducted  up  a  stair 
case  to  a  suite  of  apartments  of  faded  magnificence,  hung  with 
storied  tapestry,  which  formed  his  prison,  and  the  scene  of  that 
passionate  and  fanciful  amour,  which  has  woven  into  the  web  of  his 
story  the  magical  hues  of  poetry  and  fiction. 

The  whole  history  of  this  amiable  but  unfortunate  prince  is 
highly  romantic.  At  the  tender  age  of  eleven  he  was  sent  from 
home  by  his  father,  Robert  III.,  and  destined  for  the  French  court, 
to  be  reared  under  the  eye  of  the  French  monarch,  secure  from  the 
treachery  and  danger  that  surrounded  the  royal  house  of  Scotland. 
It  was  his  mishap  in  the  course  of  his  voyage  to  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  English,  and  he  was  detained  prisoner  by  Henry  IV.,  not 
withstanding  that  a  truce  existed  between  the  two  countries. 

The  intelligence  of  his  capture,  coming  in  the  train  of  many 
sorrows  and  disasters,  proved  fatal  to  his  unhappy  father.  "The 


7o        .  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

news,"  we  are  told,  "was  brought  to  him  while  at  supper,  and 
did  so  overwhelm  him  with  grief,  that  he  was  almost  ready  to  give 
up  the  ghost  into  the  hands  of  the  servant  that  attended  him.  But 
being  carried  to  his  bed-chamber,  he  abstained  from  all  food,  and 
in  three  days  died  of  hunger  and  grief  at  Rothesay."  * 

James  was  detained  in  captivity  above  eighteen  years ;  but 
though  deprived  of  personal  liberty,  he  was  treated  with  the  respect 
due  to  his  rank.  Care  was  taken  to  instruct  him  in  all  the  branches 
of  useful  knowledge  cultivated  at  that  period,  and  to  give  him 
those  mental  and  personal  accomplishments  deemed  proper  for  a 
prince.  Perhaps,  in  this  respect,  his  imprisonment  was  an  advan 
tage,  as  it  enabled  him  to  apply  himself  the  more  exclusively  to 
his  improvement,  and  quietly  to  imbibe  that  rich  fund  of  knowl 
edge,  and  to  cherish  those  elegant  tastes,  which  have  given  such 
a  lustre  to  his  memory.  The  picture  drawn  of  him  in  early  life  by 
the  Scottish  historians  is  highly  captivating,  and  seems  rather  the 
description  of  a  hero  of  romance  than  of  a  character  in  real  history. 
He  was  well  learnt,  we  are  told,  "to  fight  with  the  sword,  to  joust, 
to  tournay,  to  wrestle,  to  sing  and  dance  ;  he  was  an  expert  medi- 
ciner,  right  crafty  in  playing  both  of  lute  and  harp,  and  sundry 
other  instruments  of  music,  and  was  expert  in  grammar,  oratory, 
and  poetry."  f 

With  this  combination  of  manly  and  delicate  accomplishments, 
fitting  him  to  shine  both  in  active  and  elegant  life,  and  calculated 
to  give  him  an  intense  relish  for  joyous  existence,  it  must  have  been 
a  severe  trial,  in  an  age  of  bustle  and  chivalry,,  to  pass  the  spring 
time  of  his  years  in  monotonous  captivity.  It  was  the  good  fortune 
of  James,  however,  to  be  gifted  with  a  powerful  poetic  fancy,  and 
to  be  visited  in  his  prison  by  the  choicest  inspirations  of  the  muse. 
Some  minds  corrode  and  grow  inactive  under  the  loss  of  personal 
liberty ;  others  grow  morbid  and  irritable  ;  but  it  is  the  nature  of 
the  poet  to  become  tender  and  imaginative  in  the  loneliness  of  con 
finement.  He  banquets  upon  the  honey  of  his  own  thoughts,  and, 
like  the  captive  bird,  pours  forth  his  soul  in  melody. 

Have  you  not  seen  the  nightingale, 

A  pilgrim  coop'd  into  a  cage, 
How  doth  she  chant  her  wonted  tale, 

In  that  her  lonely  hermitage ! 
Even  there  her  charming  melody  doth  prove 
That  all  her  boughs  are  trees,  her  cage  a  grove. %. 


*  Buchanan. 

t  Ballenden's  Translation  of  Hector  Boyce- 

t  Roger  L'Estrange. 


A  ROYAL  POET.  ?l 

Indeed,  it  is  the  divine  attribute  of  the  imagination,  that  it  is 
irrepressible,  unconfinable ;  that  when  the  real  world  is  shut  out, 
it  can  create  a  world  for  itself,  and  with  a  necromantic  power,  can 
conjure  up  glorious  shapes  and  forms,  and  brilliant  visions,  to 
make  solitude  populous,  .and  irradiate  the  gloom  of  the  dungeon. 
Such  was  the  world  of  pomp  and  pageant  that  lived  round  Tasso 
in  his  disrnal  cell  at  Ferrara,  when  he  conceived  the  splendid 
scenes  of  his  Jerusalem;  and  we  may  consider  the  "  King's  Quair," 
composed  by  James  during  his  captivity  at  Windsor,  as  another 
of  those  beautiful  breakings-forth  of  the  soul  from  the  restraint  and 
gloom  of  the  prison  house. 

The  subject  of  the  poem  is  his  love  for  the  Lady  Jane  Beaufort, 
daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Somerset,  and  a  princess  of  the  blood 
voyal  of  England,  of  whom  he  became  enamored  in  the  course  of 
his  captivity.  What  gives  it  a  peculiar  value  is  that  it  may  be 
considered  a  transcript  of  the  royal  bard's  true  feelings,  and  the 
story  of  his  real  loves  and  fortunes.  It  is  not  often  that  soverigns 
write  poetry,  or  that  poets  deal  in  fact.  It  is  gratifying  to  the 
pride  of  a  common  man,  to  find  a  monarch  thus  suing,  as  it  were, 
for  admission  into  his  closet,  and  seeking  to  win  his  favor  by 
administering  to  his  pleasures.  It  is  a  proof  of  the  honest  equality 
of  intellectual  competition,  which  strips  off  all  the  trappings  of 
factitious  dignity,  brings  the  candidate  down  to  a  level  with  his 
fellow-men,  and  obliges  him  to  depend  on  his  own  native  powers 
for  distinction.  It  is  curious,  too,  to  get  at  the  history  of  a  mon 
arch's  heart,  and  to  find  the  simple  affections  of  human  nature 
throbbing  under  the  ermine.  But  James  had  learnt  to  be  a  poet 
before  he  was  a  king :  he  was  schooled  in  adversity,  and  reared  in 
the  company  of  his  own  thoughts.  Monarchs  have  seldom  time 
to  parley  with  their  hearts,  or  to  meditate  their  minds  into  poetry ; 
and  had  James  been  brought  up  amidst  the  adulation  and  gayety 
of  a  court,  we  should  never,  in  all  probability,  have  had  such  a 
poem  as  the  Quair. 

I  have  been  particularly  interested  by  those  parts  of  the  poem 
which  breathe  his  immediate  thoughts  concerning  his  situation,  or 
which  are  connected  with  the  apartment  in  the  tower.  They  have 
thus  a  personal  and  local  charm,  and  are  given  with  such  circum 
stantial  truth,  as  to  make  the  reader  present  with  the  captive  in  his 
prison,  and  the  companion  of  his  meditations. 

Such  is  the  account  which  he  gives  of  his  weariness  of  spirit,  and 
of  the  incident  which  first  suggested  the  idea  of  writing  the  poem. 
It  was  the  still  midwatch  of  a  clear  moonlight  night ;  the  stars,  he 
says,  were  twinkling  as  fire  in  the  high  vault  of  heaven:  and 


72  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

•'Cynthia  rinsing  her  golden  locks  in  Aquarius."  He  lay  in  bed 
wakeful  and  restless,  and  took  a  book  to  beguile  the  tedious  hours. 
The  book  he  chose  was  Boetius'  Consolations  of  Philosophy,  a 
work  popular  among  the  writers  of  that  day,  and  which  had  been 
translated  by  his  great  prototype,  Chaucer.  From  the  high  eulo- 
gium  in  which  he  indulges,  it  is  evident  this  was  one  of  his  favorite 
volumes  while  in  prison :  and,  indeed,  it  is  an  admirable  text-book 
for  meditation  under  adversity.  It  is  the  legacy  of  a  noble  and 
enduring  spirit,  purified  by  sorrow  and  suffering,  bequeathing  to  its 
successors  in  calamity  the  maxims  of  sweet  morality,  and  the  trains 
of  eloquent  but  simple  reasoning,  by  which  it  was  enabled  to  bear 
up  against  the  various  ills  of  life.  It  is  a  talisman,  which  the  unfor 
tunate  may  treasure  up  in  his  bosom,  or,  like  the  good  King  James, 
lay  upon  his  nightly  pillow. 

After  closing  the  volume,  he  turns  its  contents  over  in  his  mind, 
and  gradually  falls  into  a  fit  of  musing  on  the  fickleness  of  fortune, 
the  vicissitudes  of  his  own  life,  and  the  evils  that  had  overtaken 
him  even  in  his  tender  youth.  Suddenly  he  hears  the  bell  ringing 
to  matins ;  but  its  sound,  chiming  in  with  his  melancholy  fancies, 
seems  to  him  like  a  voice  exhorting  him  to  write  his  story.  In  the 
spirit  of  poetic  errantry  he  determines  to  comply  with  this  intima 
tion  :  he,  therefore,  takes  pen  in  hand,  makes  with  it  a  sign  of  the 
cross  to  implore  a  benediction,  and  sallies  forth  into  the  fairy  land 
of  poetry.  There  is  something  extremely  fanciful  in  all  this,  and 
it  is  interesting  as  furnishing  a  striking  and  beautiful  instance  of 
the  simple  manner  in  which  whole  trains  of  poetical  thought  are 
sometimes  awakened,  and  literary  enterprises  suggested  to  the 
mind. 

In  the  course  of  his  poem  he  more  than  once  bewails  the  peculiar 
hardness  of  his  fate;  thus  doomed  to  lonely  and  inactive  life,  and 
shut  up  from  the  freedom  and  pleasure  of  the  world,  in  which  the 
meanest  animal  indulges  unrestrained.  There  is  a  sweetness,  how 
ever,  in  his  very  complaints  ;  they  are  the  lamentations  of  an 
amiable  and  social  spirit  at  being  denied  the  indulgence  of  its  kind 
and  generous  propensities  ;  there  is  nothing  in  them  harsh  nor 
exaggerated;  they  flow  with  a  natural  and  touching  pathos,  and 
are,  perhaps,  rendered  more  touching  by  their  simple  brevity. 
They  contrast  finely  with  those  elaborate  and  iterated  repinings, 
which  we  sometimes  meet  with  in  poetry  ; — the  effusions  of  morbid 
minds  sickening  under  miseries  of  their  own  creating,  and  venting 
their  bitterness  upon  an  unoffending  world.  James  speaks  of  his 
privations  with  acute  sensibility,  but  having  mentioned  them  passes 
pta,  as  if  his  manly  mind  disdained  to  brood  over  unavoidable 


A  ROYAL  POET.  73 

calamities.  When  such  a  spirit  breaks  forth  into  complaint,  how* 
ever  brief,  we  are  aware  how  great  must  be  the  suffering  that 
extorts  the  murmur.  We  sympathize  with  James,  a  romantic, 
active,  and  accomplished  prince,  cut  off  in  the  lustihood  of  youth 
from  all  the  enterprise,  the  noble  uses,  and  vigorous  delights 
of  life  ;  as  we  do  with  Milton,  alive  to  all  the  beauties  of  nature 
and  glories  of  art,  when  he  breathes  forth  brief,  but  deep-toned 
lamentations  over  his  perpetual  blindness. 

Had  not  James  evinced  a  deficiency  of  poetic  artifice,  we  might 
almost  have  suspected  that  these  lowerings  of  gloomy  reflection 
were  meant  as  preparative  to  the  brightest  scene  of  his  story;  and 
to  contrast  with  that  refulgence  of  light  and  loveliness,  that  exhil' 
arating  accompaniment  of  bird  and  song,  and  foliage  and  flower, 
and  all  the  revel  of  the  year,  with  which  he  ushers  in  the  lady  of 
his  heart.  It  is  this  scene,  in  particular,  which  throws  all  the  magic 
of  romance  about  the  old  Castle  Keep.  He  had  risen,  he  says,  at 
daybreak,  according  to  custom,  to  escape  from  the  dreary  medita 
tions  of  a  sleepless  pillow.  "  Bewailing  in  his  chamber  thus  alone," 
despairing  of  all  joy  and  remedy,  "  fortired  of  thought  and  wobe- 
gone,"  he  had  wandered  to  the  window,  to  indulge  the  captive's 
miserable  solace  of  gazing  wistfully  upon  the  world  from  which  he 
is  excluded.  The  window  looked  forth  upon  a  small  garden  which 
lay  at  the  foot  of  the  tower.  It  was  a  quiet,  sheltered  spot,  adorned 
with  arbors  and  green  alleys,  and  protected  from  the  passing  gaze 
by  trees  and  hawthorn  hedges. 

Now  was  there  made,  fast  by  the  tower's  wall, 

A  garden  faire,  and  in  the  corners  set 
An  arbour  green  with  wandis  long  and  small 

Railed  about,  and  so  with  leaves  beset 
Was  all  the  place  and  hawthorn  hedges  knet, 
That  lyf*  was  none,  walkyng  there  forbye 
That  might  within  scarce  any  wight  espye. 

So  thick  the  branches  and  the  leves  grene, 
Beshaded  all  the  alleys  that  there  were, 

And  midst  of  every  arbour  might  be  sene 
The  sharpe,  grene,  swete  juniper, 

Growing  so  fair,  with  branches  here  and  there, 
That  as  it  seemed  to  a  lyf  without, 
The  boughs  did  spread  the  arbour  all  about. 

And  on  the  small  grene  twistisf  set 

The  lytel  swete  nightingales,  and  sung 

*  Lyf,  person.  t  Tivistis,  small  boughs  or  twigs. 

Note.— The  language  of  the  quotations  is  generally  modernized. 


74  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

So  loud  and  clear,  the  hymnis  consecrate 

Of  lovis  use,  now  soft,  now  loud  among, 
That  all  the  garden  and  the  wallis  rung 
Right  of  their  song 

It  was  the  month  of  May,  when  everything  was  in  bloom ;  and 
he  interprets  the  song  of  the  nightingale  into  the  language  of  his 
enamored  feeling : 

Worship,  all  ye  that  lovers  be,  this  May, 

For  of  your  bliss  the  kalends  are  begun, 

And  sing  with  us,  away,  winter,  away, 

Come,  summer,  come,  the  sweet  season  and  sun. 

As  he  gazes  on  the  scene,  and  listens  to  the  notes  of  the  birds, 
he  gradually  relapses  into  one  of  those  tender  and  undefinable 
reveries  which  fill  the  youthful  bosom  in  this  delicious  season.  He 
wonders  what  this  love  may  be,  of  which  he  has  so  often  read,  and 
which  thus  seems  breathed  forth  in  the  quickening  breath  of  May, 
and  melting  all  nature  into  ecstasy  and  song.  If  it  really  be  so 
great  a  felicity,  and  if  it  be  a  boon  thus  generally  dispensed  to  the 
most  insignificant  beings,  why  is  he  alone  cut  off  from  its  enjoy 
ments? 

Oft  would  I  think,  O  Lord,  what  may  this  be, 

That  love  is  of  such  noble  myght  and  kynde  F 

Loving  his  folke,  and  such  prosperitee 
Is  it  of  him,  as  we  in  books  do  find : 
May  he  oure  hertes  setten*  and  unbynd: 

Hath  he  upon  our  hertes  such  maistrye  ? 

Or  is  all  this  but  feynit  fantasye  ? 

For  giff  he  be  of  so  grete  excellence, 

That  he  of  every  wight  hath  care  and  charge, 

What  have  I  giltf  to  him,  or  done  offense, 

That  I  am  thral'd,  and  birdis  go  at  large? 

In  the  midst  of  his  musing,  as  he  casts  his  eye  downward,  he 
beholds  "the  fairest  and  the  freshest  young  floure "  that  ever  he 
had  seen.  It  is  the  lovely  Lady  Jane,  walking  in  the  garden  to 
enjoy  the  beauty  of  that  "fresh  May  morrowe."  Breaking  thus 
suddenly  upon  his  sight,  in  the  moment  of  loneliness  and  excited 
susceptibility,  she  at  once  captivates  the  fancy  of  the  romantic 
prince,  and  becomes  the  object  of  his  wandering  wishes,  the  sove 
reign  of  his  ideal  world. 

There  is,  in  this  charming  scene,  an  evident  resemblance  to  the 
*8etten,  incline.  ~\~Gilt,  what  injury  have  I  done,  etc. 


A  ROYAL  POET.  ?$ 

early  part  of  Chaucer's  Knight's  Tale  ;  where  Palamon  and  Arcite 
fall  in  love  with  Emilia,  whom  they  see  walking  in  the  garden  of 
their  prison.  Perhaps  the  similarity  of  the  actual  fact  to  the  inci 
dent  which  he  had  read  in  Chaucer  may  have  induced  James  to 
dwell  on  it  in  his  poem.  His  description  of  the  Lady  Jane  is  given 
in  the  picturesque  and  minute  manner  of  his  master ;  and  being, 
doubtless,  taken  from  the  life,  is  a  perfect  portrait  of  a  beauty  of 
that  day.  He  dwells,  with  the  fondness  of  a  lover,  on  every  article 
of  her  apparel,  from  the  net  of  pearl,  splendent  with  emeralds  and 
sapphires,  that  confined  her  golden  hair,  even  to  the  "goodly 
chaine  of  small  orfeverye  "*  about  her  neck,  whereby  there  hung  a 
ruby  in  shape  of  a  heart,  that  seemed,  he  says,  like  a  spark  of  fire 
burning  upon  her  white  bosom.  Her  dress  of  white  tissue  was 
looped  up  to  enable  her  to  walk  with  more  freedom.  She  was 
accompanied  by  two  female  attendants,  and  about  her  sported  a 
little  hound  decorated  with  bells  ;  probably  the  small  Italian  hound 
of  exquisite  symmetry,  which  was  a  parlor  favorite  and  pet  among 
the  fashionable  dames  of  ancient  times.  James  closes  his  descrip 
tion  by  a  burst  of  general  eulogium : 

In  her  was  youth,  beauty,  with  humble  port, 
Bounty,  richesse,  and  womanly  feature; 

God  better  knows  then  my  pen  can  report, 

Wisdom,  largesse,!  estate,  J  and  cunning  \  sure, 

In  every  point  so  guided  her  measure, 

In  word,  in  deed,  in  shape,  in  countenance, 
That  nature  might  no  more  her  child  advance. 

The  departure  of  the  Lady  Jane  from  the  garden  puts  an  end  to 
this  transient  riot  of  the  heart.  With  her  departs  the  amorous  illu 
sion  that  had  shed  a  temporary  charm  over  the  scene  of  his  cap 
tivity,  and  he  relapses  into  loneliness,  now  rendered  tenfold  more 
intolerable  by  this  passing  beam  of  unattainable  beauty.  Through 
the  long  and  weary  day  he  repines  at  his  unhappy  lot,  and  when 
evening  approaches,  and  Phoebus,  as  he  beautifully  expresses  it, 
had  "bade  farewell  to  every  leaf  and  flower,"  he  still  lingers  at 
the  window,  and,  laying  his  head  upon  the  cold  stone,  gives  vent 
to  a  mingled  flow  of  love  and  sorrow,  until,  gradually  lulled  by  the 
mute  melancholy  of  the 'twilight  hour,  he  lapses,  "half  sleeping, 
half  swoon,"  into  a  vision,  which  occupies  the  remainder  of  the 
poem,  and  in  which  is  allegorically  shadowed  out  the  history  of  his 
passion. 
When  he  wakes  from  his  trance,  he  rises  from  his  stony  pillow, 

*  Wrought  gold.  f  Largesse,  bounty. 

t  Estate,  dignity.  §  Cunning \  discretion. 


;6  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and,  pacing  his  apartment,  full  of  dreary  reflections,  questions  his 
spirit,  whither  it  has  been  wandering ;  whether,  indeed,  all  that 
has  passed  before  his  dreaming  fancy  has  been  conjured  up  by 
preceding  circumstances  ;  or  whether  it  is  a  vision,  intended  tc 
comfort  and  assure  him  in  his  despondency.  If  the  latter,  he  prays 
that  some  token  may  be  sent  to  confirm  the  promise  of  happier 
days,  given  him  in  his  slumbers.  Suddenly,  a  turtle  dove,  of  the 
purest  whiteness,  comes  flying  in  at  the  window,  and  alights  upon 
his  hand,  bearing  in  her  bill  a  branch  of  red  gilliflower,  on  the 
leaves  of  which  is  written,  in  letters  of  gold,  the  following  sentence : 

Awake !  awake !    I  bring,  lover,  I  bring 

The  newis  glad  that  blissful  is,  and  sure 

Of  thy  comfort ;  now  laugh,  and  play,  and  sing, 
For  in  the  heaven  decretit  is  thy  cure. 

He  receives  the  branch  with  mingled  hope  and  dread ;  reads  it 
with  rapture  :  and  this,  he  says,  was  the  first  token  of  his  succeed 
ing  happiness.  Whether  this  is  a  mere  poetic  fiction,  or  whether 
the  Lady  Jane  did  actually  send  him  a  token  of  her  favor  in  this 
romantic  way,  remains  to  be  determined  according  to  the  faith  or 
fancy  of  the  reader.  He  concludes  his  poem  by  intimating  that 
the  promise  conveyed  in  the  vision  and  by  the  flower  is  fulfilled,  by 
his  being  restored  to  liberty,  and  made  happy  in  the  possession  of 
the  sovereign  of  his  heart. 

Such  is  the  poetical  account  given  by  James  of  his  love  adven 
tures  in  Windsor  Castle.  How  much  of  it  is  absolute  fact,  and 
how  much  the  embellishment  of  fancy,  it  is  fruitless  to  conjecture: 
let  us  not,  however,  reject  every  romantic  incident  as  incompatible 
with  real  life  ;  but  let  us  sometimes  take  a  poet  at  his  word.  I  have 
noticed  merely  those  parts  of  the  poem  immediately  connected 
with  the  tower,  and  have  passed  over  a  large  part,  written  in  the 
allegorical  vein,  so  much  cultivated  at  that  day.  The  language,  of 
course,  is  quaint  and  antiquated,  so  that  the  beauty  of  many  of  its 
golden  phrases  will  scarcely  be  perceived  at  the  present  day  ;  but 
it  is  impossible  not  to  be  charmed  with  the  genuine  sentiment,  the 
delightful  artlessness  and  urbanity  which  prevail  throughout  it. 
The  descriptions  of  nature,  too,  with  which  it  is  embellished,  are 
given  with  a  truth,  a  discrimination,  and  a  freshness,  worthy  of  the 
most  cultivated  periods  of  the  art. 

As  an  amatory  poem,  it  is  edifying  in  these  days  of  coarser 
thinking,  to  notice  the  nature,  refinement,  and  exquisite  delicacy 
which  pervade  it ;  banishing  every  gross  thought  or  immodest 
expression,  and  presenting  female  loveliness  clothed  in  all  its  chiv 
alrous  attributes  of  almost  supernatural  purity  and  grace. 


A  ROYAL  POET.  77 

James  flourished  nearly  about  the  time  of  Chaucer  and  Gower, 
and  was  evidently  an  admirer  and  studier  of  their  writings. 
Indeed,  in  one  of  his  stanzas  he  acknowledges  them  as  his  masters  ; 
and,  in  some  parts  of  his  poem,  we  find  traces  of  similarity  to  their 
productions,  more  especially  to  those  of  Chaucer.  There  are 
always,  however,  general  features  of  resemblance  in  the  works  of 
contemporary  authors,  which  are  not  so  much  borrowed  from  each 
other  as  from  the  times.  Writers,  like  bees,  toll  their  sweets  in  the  wide 
world>  they  incorporate  with  their  own  conceptions  the  anecdotes 
and  thoughts  current  in  society  ;  and  thus  each  generation  has 
some  features  in  common,  characteristic  of  the  age  in  which  it 
lived. 

James  belongs  to  one  of  the  most  brilliant  eras  of  our  literary 
history,  and  establishes  the  claims  of  his  country  to  a  participation 
in  its  primitive  honors.  Whilst  a  small  cluster  of  English  writers 
are  constantly  cited  as  the  fathers  of  our  verse,  the  name  of  their 
great  Scottish  compeer  is  apt  to  be  passed  over  in  silence  ;  but  he 
Is  evidently  worthy  of  being  enrolled  in  that  little  constellation  of 
remote  but  never-failing  luminaries,  who  shine  in  the  highest  firma 
ment  of  literature,  and  who,  like  morning  stars,  sang  together  at 
the  bright  dawning  of  British  poesy. 

Such  of  my  readers  as  may  not  be  familiar  with  Scottish  history 
(though  the  manner  in  which  it  has  of  late  been  woven  with  capti 
vating  fiction  has  made  it  a  universal  study),  may  be  curious  to 
learn  something  of  the  subsequent  history  of  James  and  the  for 
tunes  of  his  love.  His  passion  for  the  Lady  Jane,  as  it  was  the 
solace  of  his  captivity,  so  it  facilitated  his  release,  it  being  imagined 
by  the  court  that  a  connection  with  the  blood  royal  of  England 
would  attach  him  to  its  own  interests.  He  was  ultimately  restored 
to  his  liberty  and  crown,  having  previously  espoused  the  Lady 
Jane,  who  accompanied  him  to  Scotland,  and  made  him  a  most 
tender  and  devoted  wife. 

He  found  his  kingdom  in  great  confusion,  the  feudal  chieftains 
having  taken  advantage  of  the  troubles  and  irregularities  of  a  long 
interregnum  to  strengthen  themselves  in  their  possessions,  and 
place  themselves  above  the  power  of  the  laws.  James  sought  to 
found  the  basis  of  his  power  in  the  affections  of  his  people.  He 
attached  the  lower  orders  to  him  by  the  reformation  of  abuses,  the 
temperate  and  equable  administration  of  justice,  the  encourage 
ment  of  the  arts  of  peace,  and  the  promotion  of  everything  that 
could  diffuse  comfort,  competency,  and  innocent  enjoyment  through 
the  humblest  ranks  of  society.  He  mingled  occasionally  among  the 
common  people  in  disguise;  visited  their  firesides;  entered  into 


78  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

their  cares,  their  pursuits,  and  their  amusements  ;  informed  himaeii 
of  their  mechanical  arts,  and  how  they  could  best  be  patronized 
and  improved  ;  and  was  thus  an  all-pervading  spirit,  watching  with 
a  benevolent  eye  over  the  meanest  of  his  subjects.  Having  in  this 
generous  manner  made  himself  strong  in  the  hearts  of  the  common 
people,  he  turned  himself  to  curb  the  power  of  the  factious 
nobility ;  to  strip  them  of  those  dangerous  immunities  which  they 
had  usurped;  to  punish  such  as  had  been  guilty  of  flagrant 
offences;  and  to  bring  the  whole  into  proper  obedience  to  the 
crown.  For  some  time  they  bore  this  with  outward  submission, 
but  with  secret  impatience  and  brooding  resentment.  A  conspiracy 
was  at  length  formed  against  his  life,  at  the  head  of  which  was  his 
own  uncle,  Robert  Stewart,  Earl  of  Athol,  who,  being  too  old 
himself  for  the  perpetration  of  the  deed  of  blood,  instigated  his 
grandson,  Sir  Robert  Stewart,  together  with  Sir  Robert  Graham, 
and  others  of  less  note,  to  commit  the  deed.  They  broke  into  his 
bedchamber  at  the  Dominican  Convent  near  Perth,  where  he  was 
residing,  and  barbarously  murdered  him  by  oft-repeated  wounds. 
His  faithful  queen,  rushing  to  throw  her  tender  body  between  him 
and  the  sword,  was  twice  wounded  in  the  ineffectual  attempt  to 
shield  him  from  the  assassin ;  and  it  was  not  until  she  had  beer 
forcibly  torn  from  his  person,  that  the  murder  was  accomplished. 

It  was  the  recollection  of  this  romantic  tale  of  former  times,  and 
of  the  golden  little  poem  which  had  its  birthplace  in  this  Tower, 
that  made  me  visit  the  old  pile  with  more  than  common  interest. 
The  suit  of  armour  hanging  up  in  the  hall,  richly  gilt  and  embel 
lished,  as  if  to  figure  in  the  tournay,  brought  the  image  of  the 
gallant  and  romantic  prince  vividly  before  my  imagination.  I 
paced  the  deserted  chambers  where  he  had  composed  his  poem ;  I 
leaned  upon  the  window,  and  endeavored  to  persuade  myself  it 
was  the  very  one  where  he  had  been  visited  by  his  vision  ;  I  looked 
out  upon  the  spot  where  he  had  first  seen  the  Lady  Jane.  It  was 
the  same  genial  and  joyous  month  ;  the  birds  were  again  vying 
with  each  other  in  strains  of  liquid  melody  ;  everything  was  burst 
ing  into  vegetation,  and  budding  forth  the  tender  promise  of  the 
year.  Time,  which  delights  to  obliterate  the  sterner  memorials  of 
human  pride,  seems  to  have  passed  lightly  over  this  little  scene  of 
poetry  and  love,  and  to  have  withheld  his  desolating  hand. 
Several  centuries  have  gone  by,  yet  the  garden  still  flourishes  at 
the  foot  of  the  Tower.  It  occupies  what  was  once  the  moat  of  the 
Keep ;  and  though  some  parts  have  been  separated  by  dividing  walls, 
yet  others  have  still  their  arbors  and  shaded  walks,  as  in  the  days 
of  James,  and  the  whole  is  sheltered,  blooming,  and  retired.  There, 


A  ROYAL  POET.  79 

is  a  charm  about  a  spot  that  has  been  printed  by  the  footsteps  of 
departed  beauty,  and  consecrated  by  the  inspirations  of  the  poet 
which  is  heightened,  rather  than  impaired,  by  the  lapse  of  ages. 
It  is,  indeed,  the  gift  of  poetry  to  hallow  every  place  in  which  it 
moves  ;  to  breath  around  nature  an  odor  more  exquisite  than  the 
perfume  of  the  rose,  and  to  shed  over  it  a  tint  more  magical  than 
the  blush  of  morning. 

Others  may  dwell  on  the  illustrious  deeds  of  James  as  a  warrior 
and  a  legislator ;  but  I  have  delighted  to  view  him  merely  as  the 
companion  of  his  fellow-men,  the  benefactor  of  the  human  heart, 
stooping  from  his  high  estate  to  sow  the  sweet  flowers  of  poetry 
and  song  in  the  paths  of  common  life.  He  was  the  first  to  cultivate 
the  vigorous  and  hardy  plant  of  Scottish  genius,  which  has  since 
become  so  prolific  of  the  most  wholesome  and  highly-flavored  fruit. 
He  carried  with  him  into  the  sterner  regions  of  the  north  all  the 
fertilizing  arts  of  southern  refinement.  He  did  everything  in  his 
power  to  win  his  countrymen  to  the  gay,  the  elegant,  and  gentle 
arts,  which  soften  and  refine  the  character  of  a  people,  and  wreathe 
a  grace  round  the  loftiness  of  a  proud  and  warlike  spirit.  He 
wrote  many  poems,  which,  unfortunately  for  the  fulness  of  his  fame, 
are  now  lost  to  the  world  ;  one,  which  is  still  preserved,  called 
"Christ's  Kirk  of  the  Green,"  shows  how  diligently  he  had  made 
himself  acquainted  with  the  rustic  sports  and  pastimes  which  con 
stitute  such  a  source  of  kind  and  social  feeling  among  the  Scottish 
peasantry  ;  and  with  what  simple  and  happy  humor  he  could  enter 
into  their  enjoyments.  He  contributed  greatly  to  improve  the 
national  music ;  and  traces  of  his  tender  sentiment  and  elegant 
taste  are  said  to  exist  in  those  witching  airs,  still  piped  among  the 
wild  mountains  and  lonely  glens  of  Scotland.  He  has  thus  con 
nected  his  image  with  whatever  is  most  gracious  and  endearing  in 
the  national  character ;  he  has  embalmed  his  memory  in  song,  and 
floated  his  name  to  after  ages  in  the  rich  streams  of  Scottish 
melody.  The  recollection  of  these  things  was  kindling  at  my  heart 
as  I  paced  the  silent  scene  of  his  imprisonment.  I  have  visited 
Vaucluse  with  as  much  enthusiasm  as  a  pilgrim  would  visit  the 
shrine  at  Loretto ;  but  I  have  never  felt  more  poetical  devotion  than 
when  contemplating  the  old  Tower  and  the  little  garden  at  Windsor, 
and  musing  over  the  romantic  loves  of  the  Lad/  Jane  and  the 
Royal  Poet  of  Scotland. 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH. 

A  gentleman ! 

"What,  o'  the  woolpack?  or  the  sugar-chest? 
Or  lists  of  velvet  ?  which  is 't,  pouud,  or  yard, 
You  vend  your  gentry  by? 

BEGGAR'S  BUSH. 

are  few  places  more  favorable  to  the  study  of  character 
than  an  English  country  church.  I  was  once  passing  a  few 
weeks  at  the  seat  of  a  friend,  who  resided  in  the  vicinity  of  one, 
the  appearance  of  which  particularly  struck  my  fancy.  It  was  one 
of  those  rich  morsels  of  quaint  antiquity  which  give  such  a  peculiar 
charm  to  English  landscape.  It  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  country 
filled  with  ancient  families,  and  contained,  within  its  cold  and 
silent  aisles,  the  congregated  dust  of  many  noble  generations.  The 
interior  walls  were  incrusted  with  monuments  of  every  age  and 
style.  The  light  streamed  through  windows  dimmed  with  armorial 
bearings,  richly  emblazoned  in  stained  glass.  In  various  parts  of 
the  church  were  tombs  of  knights,  and  high-born  dames,  of  gorge 
ous  workmanship,  with  their  effigies  in  colored  marble.  On  every 
side  the  eye  was  struck  with  some  instance  of  aspiring  mortality ; 
some  haughty  memorial  which  human  pride  had  erected  over  its 
kindred  dust,  in  this  temple  of  the  most  humble  of  all  religions. 

The  congregation  was  composed  of  the  neighboring  people  of 
rank,  who  sat  in  pews  sumptuously  lined  and  cushioned,  furnished 
with  richly-gilded  prayer-books,  and  decorated  with  their  arms 
upon  the  pew  doors ;  of  the  villagers  and  peasantry,  who  filled  the 
back  seats,  and  a  small  gallery  beside  the  organ  ;  and  of  the  poor 
of  the  parish,  who  were  ranged  on  benches  in  the  aisles. 

The  service  was  performed  by  a  snuffling,  well-fed  vicar,  who 
had  a  snug  dwelling  near  the  church.  He  was  a  privileged  guest 
at  all  the  tables  of  the  neighborhood,  and  had  been  the  keenest 
fox-hunter  in  the  country ;  until  age  and  good  living  had  disabled 
him  from  doing  anything  more  than  ride  to  see  the  hounds  throw 
ofY,  and  make  one  at  the  hunting  dinner. 

Under  the  ministry  of  such  a  pastor,  I  found  it  impossible  to  get 
into  the  train  of  thought  suitable  to  the  time  and  place  :  so,  having, 
like  many  other  feeble  Christians,  compromised  with  my  conscience 
by" -laying  the  sin  of  my  own  delinquency  at  another  person's  thres 
hold,  I  occupied  myself  by  making  observations  on  my  neighbors. 


THE  CO  UNTR  Y  CHUR Cfi.  8f 

I  was  as  yet  a  stranger  in  England,  and  curious  to  notice  the 
manners  of  its  fashionable  classes.  I  found,  as  usual,  that  there 
was  the  least  pretension  where  there  was  the  most  acknowledged 
title  to  respect.  I  was  particularly  struck,  for  instance,  with  the 
family  of  a  nobleman  of  high  rank,  consisting  of  several  sons  and 
daughters.  Nothing  could  be  more  simple  and  unassuming  than 
their  appearance.  They  generally  came  to  church  in  the  plainest 
equipage,  and  often  on  foot.  The  young  ladies  would  stop  and 
converse  in  the  kindest  manner  with  the  peasantry,  caress  the 
children,  and  listen  to  the  stories  of  the  humble  cottagers.  Their 
countenances  were  open  and  beautifully  fair,  with  an  expression  of 
high  refinement,  but,  at  the  same  time,  a  frank  cheerfulness,  and 
an  engaging  affability.  Their  brothers  were  tall,  and  elegantly 
formed.  They  were  dressed  fashionably,  but  simply;  with  strict 
neatness  and  propriety,  but  without  any  mannerism  or  foppishness. 
Their  whole  demeanor  was  easy  and  natural,  with  that  lofty  grace 
and  noble  frankness  which  bespeak  freeborn  souls  that  have  never 
been  checked  in  their  growth  by  feelings  of  inferiority.  There  is  a 
healthful  hardiness  about  real  dignity,  that  never  dreads  contact 
and  communion  with  others,  however  humble.  It  is  only  spurious 
pride  that  is  morbid  and  sensitive,  and  shrinks  from  every  touch. 
I  was  pleased  to  see  the  manner  in  which  they  would  converse  with 
the  peasantry  about  those  rural  concerns  and  field-sports,  in  which 
the  gentlemen  of  this  country  so  much  delight.  In  these  conversa 
tions  there  was  neither  haughtiness  on  the  one  part,  nor  servility  on 
the  other;  and  you  were  only  reminded  of  the  difference  of  rank 
by  the  habitual  respect  of  the  peasant 

In  contrast  to  these  was  the  family  of  a  wealthy  citizen  who  had 
amassed  a  vast  fortune  ;  and,  having  purchased  the  estate  and 
mansion  of  a  ruined  nobleman  in  the  neighborhood,  was  endeav 
oring  to  assume  all  the  style  and  dignity  of  an  hereditary  lord  of 
the  soil.  The  family  always  came  to  church  en  prince.  They  were 
rolled  majestically  along  in  a  carriage  emblazoned  with  arms.  The 
crest  glittered  in  silver  radiance  from  every  part  of  the  harness 
where  a  crest  could  possibly  be  placed.  A  fat  coachman,  in  a 
three-cornered  hat,  richly  laced,  and  a  flaxen  wig,  curling  close 
round  his  rosy  face,  was  seated  on  the  box,  with  a  sleek  Danish 
dog  beside  him.  Two  footmen,  in  gorgeous  liveries,  with  huge 
bouquets,  and  gold-headed  canes,  lolled  behind.  The  carriage  rose 
and  sunk  on  its  long  springs  with  peculiar  stateliness  of  motion. 
The  very  horses  champed  their  bits,  arched  their  necks,  and  glanced 
their  eyes  more  proudly  than  common  horses ;  either  because  they 
had  caught  a  little  of  the  family  feeling,  or  were  reined  up  more 
tightly  than  ordinary. 


82  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

I  could  not  but  admire  the  style  with  which  this  splendid  pageant 
was  brought  up  to  the  gate  of  the  church- yard.  There  was  a  vast 
effect  produced  at  the  turning  of  an  angle  of  the  wall ; — a  great 
smacking  of  the  whip,  straining  and  scrambling  of  horses,  glistening 
of  harness,  and  flashing  of  wheels  through  gravel.  This  was  the 
moment  of  triumph  and  vainglory  to  the  coachman.  The  horses 
were  urged  and  checked  until  they  were  fretted  into  a  foam.  They 
threw  out  their  feet  in  a  prancing  trot,  dashing  about  pebbles  at 
every  step.  The  crowd  of  villagers  sauntering  quietly  to  church 
opened  precipitately  to  the  right  and  left,  gaping  in  vacant  admira 
tion.  On  reaching  the  gate,  the  horses  were  pulled  up  with  a  sud 
denness  that  produced  an  immediate  stop,  and  almost  threw  them 
on  their  haunches. 

There  was  an  extraordinary  hurry  of  the  footman  to  alight,  pull 
down  the  steps,  and  prepare  everything  for  the  descent  on  earth  of 
this  august  family.  The  old  citizen  first  emerged  his  round,  red 
face  from  out  the  door,  looking  about  him  with  the  pompous  air  of 
a  man  accustomed  to  rule  on  'Change,  and  shake  the  Stock  Market 
with  a  nod.  His  consort,  a  fine,  fleshy,  comfortable  dame,  followed 
him.  There  seemed,  I  must  confess,  but  little  pride  in  her  com 
position.  She  was  the  picture  of  broad,  honest,  vulgar  enjoyment. 
The  world  went  well  with  her ;  and  she  liked  the  world.  She  had 
fine  clothes,  a  fine  house,  a  fine  carriage,  fine  children,  everything 
was  fine  about  her:  it  was  nothing  but  driving  about,  and  visiting 
and  feasting.  Life  was  to  her  a  perpetual  revel ;  it  was  one  long 
Lord  Mayor's  day. 

Two  daughters  succeeded  to  this  goodly  couple.  They  certainly 
were  handsome;  but  had  a  supercilious  air,  that  chilled  admira 
tion,  and  disposed  the  spectator  to  be  critical.  They  were  ultra- 
fashionable  in  dress  ;  and,  though  no  one  could  deny  the  richness 
of  their  decorations,  yet  their  appropriateness  might  be  questioned 
amidst  the  simplicity  of  a  country  church.  They  descended  loftily 
from  the  carriage,  and  moved  up  the  line  of  peasantry  with  a  step 
that  seemed  dainty  of  the  soil  it  trod  on.  They  cast  an  excursive 
glance  around,  that  passed  coldly  over  the  burly  faces  of  the  peas 
antry,  until  they  met  the  eyes  of  the  nobleman's  family,  when  their 
countenances  immediately  brightened  into  smiles,  and  they  made 
the  most  profound  and  elegant  courtesies,  which  were  returned  in  a 
manner  that  showed  they  were  but  slight  acquaintances. 

I  must  not  forget  the  two  sons  of  this  aspiring  citizen,  who  came 
to  church  in  a  dashing  curricule,  with  outriders.  They  were 
arrayed  in  the  extremity  of  the  mode,  with  all  that  pedantry  of 
dress  which  marks  the  man  of  questionable  pretensions  to  style, 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH.  83 

They  kept  entirely  by  themselves,  eyeing  every  one  askance  that 
came  near  them,  as  if  measuring  his  claims  to  respectability  ;  yet 
they  were  without  conversation,  except  the  exchange  of  an  occa 
sional  cant  phrase.  They  even  moved  artificially  ;  for  their  bodies, 
in  compliance  with  the  caprice  of  the  day,  had  been  disciplined  into 
the  absence  of  all  ease  and  freedom.  Art  had  done  everything  to 
accomplish  them  as  men  of  fashion,  but  nature  had  denied  them 
the  nameless  grace.  They  were  vulgarly  shaped,  like  men  formed 
for  the  common  purposes  of  life,  and  had  that  air  of  supercilious 
assumption  which  is  never  seen  in  the  true  gentleman. 

I  have  been  rather  minute  in  drawing  the  pictures  of  these  two 
families,  because  I  considered  them  specimens  of  what  is  often  to 
be  met  with  in  this  country — the  unpretending  great  and  the  arro 
gant  little.  I  have  no  respect  for  titled  rank,  unless  it  be  accom 
panied  with  true  nobility  of  soul ;  but  I  have  remarked  in  all 
countries  where  artificial  distinctions  exist,  that  the  very  highest 
classes  are  always  the  most  courteous  and  unassuming.  Those 
who  are  well  assured  of  their  own  standing  are  least  apt  to  tres 
pass  on  that  of  others :  whereas  nothing  is  so  offensive  as  the 
aspirings  of  vulgarity,  which  thinks  to  elevate  itself  by  humiliating 
its  neighbor. 

As  I  have  brought  these  families  into  contrast,  I  must  notice  their 
behavior  in  church.  That  of  the  nobleman's  family  was  quiet, 
serious,  and  attentive.  Not  that  they  appeared  to  have  any  fervor 
of  devotion,  but  rather  a  respect  for  sacred  things,  and  sacred 
places,  inseparable  from  good  breeding.  The  others,  on  the  con 
trary,  were  in  a  perpetual  flutter  and  whisper ;  they  betrayed  a 
a  continual  consciousness  of  finery,  and  a  sorry  ambition  of  being 
the  wonders  of  a  rural  congregation. 

The  old  gentleman  was  the  only  one  really  attentive  to  the  service. 
He  took  the  whole  burden  of  family  devotion  upon  himself,  stand 
ing  bolt  upright,  and  uttering  the  responses  with  a  loud  voice  that 
might  be  heard  all  over  the  church.  It  was  evident  that  he  was 
one  of  those  thorough  church  and  king  men,  who  connect  the  idea 
of  devotion  and  loyalty;  who  consider  the  Deity,  somehow  or 
other,  of  the  government  party,  and  religion  "a  very  excellent  sort 
of  thing,  that  ought  to  be  countenanced  and  kept  up." 

When  he  joined  so  loudly  in  the  service,  it  seemed  more  by  way 
of  example  to  the  lower  orders,  to  show  them  that,  though  so  great 
and  wealthy,  he  was  not  above  being  religious ;  as  I  have  seen  a 
turtle-fed  alderman  swallow  publicly  a  basin  of  charity  soup, 
smacking  his  lips  at  every  mouthful,  and  pronouncing  it  "  excellent 
food  for  the  poor," 


84  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

When  the  service  was  at  an  end,  I  was  curious  to  witness  the 
several  exits  of  my  groups.  The  young  noblemen  and  their  sisters, 
as  the  day  was  fine,  preferred  strolling  home  across  the  fields, 
chatting  with  the  country  people  as  they  went.  The  others  departed 
as  they  came,  in  grand  parade.  Again  were  the  equipages  wheeled 
up  to  the  gate.  There  was  again  the  smacking  of  whips,  the  clat 
tering  of  hoofs,  and  the  glittering  of  harness.  The  horses  started 
off  almost  at  a  bound  ;  the  villagers  again  hurried  to  right  and 
left ;  the  wheels  threw  up  a  cloud  of  dust ;  and  the  aspiring  family 
was  rapt  out  of  sight  in  a  whirlwind. 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON. 

Pittie  olde  age,  within  whose  silver  haires 
Honour  and  reverence  evermore  have  rain'd. 

MAKRLOWE'S  TAMBURLAINB. 

finHOSE  who  are  in  the  habit  of  remarking  such  matters,  must 
have  noticed  the  passive  quiet  of  an  English  landscape  on  Sun 
day.  The  clacking  of  the  mill,  the  regularly  recurring  stroke 
of  the  flail,  the  din  of  the  blacksmith's  hammer,  the  v/histling  of  the 
ploughman,  the  rattling  of  the  cart,  and  all  other  sounds  of  rural 
labor  are  suspended.  The  very  farm  dogs  bark  less  frequently, 
being  less  disturbed  by  passing  travellers.  At  such  times  I  have 
almost  fancied  the  winds  sunk  into  quiet,  and  that  the  sunny  land 
scape,  with  its  fresh  green  tints  melting  into  blue  haze,  enjoyed  the 
hallowed  calm. 

Sweet  day,  so  pure,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky. 

Well  was  it  ordained  that  the  day  of  devotion  should  be  a  day  of 
rest.  The  holy  repose  which  reigns  over  the  face  of  nature,  has 
its  moral  influence;  every  restless  passion  is  charmed  down,  and 
we  feel  the  natural  religion  of  the  soul  gently  springing  up  within 
us.  For  my  part,  there  are  feelings  that  visit  me,  in  a  country 
church,  amid  the  beautiful  serenity  of  nature,  which  I  experience 
nowhere  else  ;  and  if  not  a  more  religious,  I  think  I  am  a  better 
man  on  Sunday  than  on  any  other  day  of  the  seven. 

During  my  recent  residence  in  the  country,  I  used  frequently  to 
attend  at  the  old  village  church.  Its  shadowy  aisles  ;  its  moulder 
ing  monuments  ;  its  dark  oaken  panelling,  all  reverend  with  the 
gloom  of  departed  years,  seemed  to  fit  it  for  the  haunt  of  solemn 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON.  fe$ 

meditation;  but  being  in  a  wealthy,  aristocratic  neighborhood,  the 
glitter  of  fashion  penetrated  even  into  the  sanctuary;  and  I  felt 
myself  continually  thrown  back  upon  fie  world  by  the  frigidity 
and  pomp  of  the  poor  worms  around  me.  The  only  being  in  the 
whole  congregation  who  appeared  thoroughly  to  feel  the  humble 
and  prostrate  piety  of  a  true  Christian  was  a  poor,  decrepit  old 
woman,  bending  under  the  weight  of  years  and  infirmities.  She 
bore  the  traces  of  something  better  than  abject  poverty.  The 
lingerings  of  decent  pride  were  visible  in  her  appearance.  Her 
dress,  though  humble  in  the  extreme,  was  scrupulously  clean. 
Some  trivial  respect,  too,  had  been  awarded  her,  for  she  did  not 
take  her  seat  among  the  village  poor,  but  sat  alone  on  the  steps  of 
the  altar.  She  seemed  to  have  survived  all  love,  all  friendship,  all 
society  ;  and  to  have  nothing  left  her  but  the  hopes  of  heaven. 
When  I  saw  her  feebly  rising  and  bending  her  aged  form  in  prayer; 
habitually  conning  her  prayer-book,  which  her  palsied  hand  and 
failing  eyes  would  not  permit  her  to  read,  but  which  she  evidently 
knew  by  heart,  I  felt  persuaded  that  the  faltering  voice  of  that 
poor  woman  arose  to  heaven  far  before  the  responses  of  the  clerk, 
the  swell  of  the  organ,  or  the  chanting  of  the  choir. 

I  am  fond  of  loitering  about  country  churches,  and  this  was  so 
delightfully  situated,  that  it  frequently  attracted  me.  It  stood  on  a 
knoll,  round  which  a  small  stream  made  a  beautiful  bend,  and 
then  wound  its  way  through  a  long  reach  of  soft  meadow  scenery. 
The  church  was  surrounded  by  yew-trees  which  seemed  almost 
coeval  with  itself.  Its  tall  Gothic  spire  shot  up  lightly  from  among 
them,  with  rooks  and  crows  generally  wheeling  about  it.  I  was 
seated  there  one  still,  sunny  morning,  watching  two  laborers  who 
were  digging  a  grave.  They  had  chosen  one  of  the  most  remote 
and  neglected  corners  of  the  churchyard;  where,  from  the  num 
ber  of  nameless  graves  around,  it  would  appear  that  the  indigent 
and  friendless  were  huddled  into  the  earth.  I  was  told  that  the 
new-made  grave  was  for  the  only  son  of  a  poor  widow.  While  I 
was  meditating  on  the  distinctions  of  worldly  rank,  which  extend 
thus  down  into  the  very  dust,  the  toll  of  the  bell  announced  the 
approach  of  the  funeral.  They  were  the  obsequies  of  poverty, 
with  which  pride  had  nothing  to  do.  A  coffin  of  the  plainest 
materials,  without  pall  or  other  covering,  was  borne  by  some  of  the 
villagers.  The  sexton  walked  before  with  an  air  of  cold  indiffer 
ence.  There  were  no  mock  mourners  in  the  trappings  of  affected 
woe  ;  but  there  was  one  real  mourner  who  feebly  tottered  after  the 
corpse.  It  was  the  aged  mother  of  the  deceased — the  poor  old 
woman  whom  I  had  seen  seated  on  the  steps  of  the  altar.  She 


86  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

was  supported  by  a  humble  friend,  who  was  endeavoring  to  com* 
fort  her.  A  few  of  the  neighboring  poor  had  joined  the  train, 
and  some  children  of  the  village  were  running  hand  in  hand,  now 
shouting  with  unthinking  mirth,  and  now  pausing  to  gaze,  with 
childish  curiosity,  on  the  grief  of  the  mourner. 

As  the  funeral  train  approached  the  grave,  the  parson  issued 
from  the  church  porch,  arrayed  in  the  surplice,  with  prayer-book 
in  hand,  and  attended  by  the  clerk.  The  service,  however,  was  a 
mere  act  of  charity.  The  deceased  had  been  destitute,  and  the 
survivor  was  penniless.  It  was  shuffled  through,  therefore,  in  form, 
but  coldly  and  unfeelingly.  The  well-fed  priest  moved  but  a  few 
steps  from  the  church  door;  his  voice  could  scarcely  be  heard  at 
the  grave  ;  and  never  did  I  hear  the  funeral  service,  that  sublime 
and  touching  ceremony,  turned  into  such  a  frigid  mummery  of 
words. 

I  approached  the  grave.  The  coffin  was  placed  on  the  ground. 
On  it  were  inscribed  the  name  and  age  of  the  deceased — ' '  George 
Somers,  aged  26  years."  The  poor  mother  had  been  assisted  to 
kneel  down  at  the  head  of  it.  Her  withered  hands  were  clasped, 
as  if  in  prayer,  but  I  could  perceive  by  a  feeble  rocking  of  the  body, 
and  a  convulsive  motion  of  her  lips,  that  she  was  gazing  on  the  last 
relics  of  her  son,  with  the  yearnings  of  a  mother's  heart. 

Preparations  were  made  to  deposit  the  coffin  in  the  earth.  There 
was  that  bustling  stir  which  breaks  so  harshly  on  the  feelings  of 
grief  and  affection;  directions  given  in  the  cold  tones  of  business: 
the  striking  of  spades  into  sand  and  gravel,  which,  at  the  grave  of 
those  we  love,  is,  of  all  sounds,  the  most  withering.  The  bustle 
around  seemed  to  waken  the  mother  from  a  wretched  reverie.  She 
raised  her  glazed  eyes,  and  looked  about  with  a  faint  wildness.  As 
the  men  approached  with  cords  to  lower  the  coffin  into  the  grave, 
she  wrung  her  hands,  and  broke  into  an  agony  of  grief.  The  poor 
woman  who  attended  her  took  her  by  the  arm,  endeavoring  to 
raise  her  from  the  earth,  and  to  whisper  something  like  consolation 
— "Nay,  now — nay,  now — don't  take  it  so  sorely  to  heart."  She 
could  only  shake  her  head  and  wring  her  hands,  as  one  not  to  be 
comforted. 

As  they  lowered  the  body  into  the  earth,  the  creaking  of  trie 
cords  seemed  to  agonize  her;  but  when,  on  some  accidental  obstruc 
tion,  there  was  a  justling  of  the  coffin,  all  the  tenderness  of  the 
mother  burst  forth;  as  if  any  harm  could  come  to  him  who  was  far 
beyond  the  reach  of  worldly  suffering. 

I  could  see  no  more — my  heart  swelled  into  my  throat — my  eyes 
filled  with  tears — I  felt  as  if  I  were  acting  a  barbarous  part  in  stand- 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON.  8? 

ing  by,  and  gazing  idly  on  this  scene  of  maternal  anguish.  I 
wandered  to  another  part  of  the  church-yard,  where  I  remained 
until  the  funeral  train  had  dispersed. 

When  I  saw  the  mother  slowly  and  painfully  quitting  the  grave, 
leaving  behind  her  the  remains  of  all  that  was  dear  to  her  on  earth, 
and  returning  to  silence  and  destitution,  my  heart  ached  for  her. 
What,  thought  I,  are  the  distresses  of  the  rich!  they  have  friends 
to  soothe — pleasures  to  beguile — a  world  to  divert  and  dissipate 
their  griefs.  What  are  the  sorrows  of  the  young !  Their  growing 
minds  soon  close  above  the  wound — their  elastic  spirits  soon  rise 
beneath  the  pressure — their  green  and  ductile  affections- soon  twine 
round  new  objects.  But  the  sorrows  of  the  poor,  who  have  no 
outward  appliances  to  soothe — the  sorrows  of  the  aged,  with  whom 
life  at  best  is  but  a  wintry  day,  and  who  can  look  for  no  after 
growth  of  joy — the  sorrows  of  a  widow,  aged,  solitary,  destitute, 
mourning  over  an  only  son,  the  last  solace  of  her  years;  these  are 
indeed  sorrows  which  make  us  feel  the  impotency  of  consolation. 

It  was  some  time  before  I  left  the  church-yard.  On  my  way 
homeward  I  met  with  the  woman  who  had  acted  as  comforter ;  she 
was  just  returning  from  accompanying  the  mother  to  her  lonely 
habitation,  and  I  drew  from  her  some  particulars  connected  with 
the  affecting  scene  I  had  witnessed. 

The  parents  of  the  deceased  had  resided  in  the  village  from 
childhood.  They  had  inhabited  one  of  the  neatest  cottages,  and 
by  various  rural  occupations,  and  the  assistance  of  a  small  garden, 
had  supported  themselves  creditably  and  comfortably,  and  led  a 
happy  and  a  blameless  life.  They  had  one  son,  who  had  grown 
up  to  be  the  staff  and  pride  of  their  age. — "Oh,  sir!"  said  the 
good  woman,  "he  was  such  a  comely  lad,  so  sweet-tempered,  so 
kind  to  every  one  around  him,  so  dutiful  to  his  parents !  It  did 
one's  heart  good  to  see  him  of  a  Sunday,  dressed  out  in  his  best,  so 
tall,  so  straight,  so  cheery,  supporting  his  old  mother  to  church — 
for  she  was  always  fonder  of  leaning  on  George's  arm,  than  on  her 
good  man's;  and,  poor  soul,  she  might  well  be  proud  of  him,  for  a 
finer  lad  there  was  not  in  the  country  round." 

Unfortunately,  the  son  was  tempted,  during  a  year  of  scarcity 
and  agricultural  hardship,  to  enter  into  the  service  of  one  of  the 
small  craft  that  plied  on  a  neighboring  river.  He  had  not  been 
long  in  his  employ  when  he  was  entrapped  by  a  press-gang,  and 
carried  off  to  sea.  His  parents  received  tidings  of  his  seizure,  but 
beyond  that  they  could  learn  nothing.  It  was  the  loss  of  their 
main  prop.  The  father,  who  was  already  infirm,  grew  heartless 
and  melancholy,  and  sunk  into  his  grave.  The  widow,  left  lonely 


88  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

in  her  age  and  feebleness,  could  no  longer  support  herself,  and 
came  upon  the  parish.  Still  there  was  a  kind  feeling  toward  her 
throughout  the  village,  and  a  certain  respect  as  being  one  of  the 
oldest  inhabitants.  As  no  one  applied  for  the  cottage,  in  which 
she  had  passed  so  many  happy  days,  she  was  permitted  to  remain 
in  it,  where  she  lived  solitary  and  almost  helpless.  The  few  wants 
of  nature  were  chiefly  supplied  from  the  scanty  productions  of  her 
little  garden,  which  the  neighbors  would  now  and  then  cultivate 
for  her.  It  was  but  a  few  days  before  the  time  at  which  these  cir 
cumstances  were  told  me,  that  she  was  gathering  some  vegetables 
for  her  repast,  when  she  heard  the  cottage  door  which  faced  the 
garden  suddenly  opened.  A  stranger  came  out,  and  seemed  to  be 
looking  eagerly  and  wildly  around.  He  was  dressed  in  seaman's 
clothes,  was  emaciated  and  ghastly  pale,  and  bore  the  air  of  one 
broken  by  sickness  and  hardships.  He  saw  her,  and  hastened 
towards  her,  but  his  steps  were  faint  and  faltering ;  he  sank  on  his 
knees  before  her,  and  sobbed  like  a  child.  The  poor  woman  gazed 
upon  him  with  a  vacant  and  wandering  eye — "Oh,  my  dear,  dear 
mother!  don't  you  know  your  son?  your  poor  boy,  George?"  It 
was  indeed  the  wreck  of  her  once  noble  lad,  who,  shattered  by 
wounds,  by  sickness  and  foreign  imprisonment,  had,  at  length, 
dragged  his  wasted  limbs  homeward,  to  repose  among  the  scenes 
of  his  childhood. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  detail  the  particulars  of  such  a  meeting, 
where  joy  and  sorrow  were  so  completely  blended:  still  he  waf 
alive !  he  was  come  home !  he  might  yet  live  to  comfort  and  cherish 
her  old  age  !  Nature,  however,  was  exhausted  in  him  ;  and  if  any 
thing  had  been  wanting  to  finish  the  work  of  fate,  the  desolation 
of  his  native  cottage  would  have  been  sufficient.  He  stretched 
himself  on  the  pallet  on  which  his  widowed  mother  had  passed 
many  a  sleepless  night,  and  he  never  rose  from  it  again. 

The  villagers,  when  they  heard  that  George  Somers  had  returned, 
crowded  to  see  him,  offering  every  comfort  and  assistance  that 
their  humble  means  afforded.  He  was  too  weak,  however,  to  talk 
• — he  could  only  look  his  thanks.  His  mother  was  his  constant 
attendant ;  and  he  seemed  unwilling  to  be  helped  by  any  other 
hand. 

There  is  something  in  sickness  that  breaks  down  the  pride  of 
manhood  ;  that  softens  the  heart,  and  brings  it  back  to  the  feelings 
of  infancy.  Who  that  has  languished,  even  in  advanced  life,  in 
sickness  and  despondency ;  who  that  has  pined  on  a  weary  bed  in 
the  neglect  and  loneliness  of  a  foreign  land ;  but  has  thought  on 
the  mother  "that  looked  on  his  childhood,"  that  smoothed  his  pil* 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON.  $9 

fc>w,  and  administered  to  his  helplessness?  Oh!  there  is  an  endur 
ing  tenderness  in  the  love  of  a  mother  to  her  son  that  transcends 
all  other  affections  of  the  heart.  It  is  neither  to  be  chilled  by  self 
ishness,  nor  daunted  by  danger,  nor  weakened  by  worthlessness, 
nor  stifled  by  ingratitude.  She  will  sacrifice  every  comfort  to  his 
convenience  ;  she  will  surrender  every  pleasure  to  his  enjoyment ; 
she  will  glory  in  his  fame*,  and  exult  in  his  prosperity :— and,  if 
misfortune  overtake  him,  he  will  be  the  dearer  to  her  from  misfor 
tune  ;  and  if  disgrace  settle  upon  bis  name,  she  will  still  love  and 
cherish  him  in  spite  of  his  disgrace ;  and  if  all  the  world  beside 
cast  him  off,  she  will  be  all  the  world  to  him. 

Poor  George  Somers  had  known  what  it  was  to  be  in  sickness, 
and  none  to  soothe — lonely  and  in  prison,  and  none  to  visit  him. 
He  could  not  endure  his  mother  from  his  sight;  if  she  moved 
away,  his  eye  would  follow  her.  She  would  sit  for  hours  by  his 
bed,  watching  him  as  he  slept.  Sometimes  he  would  start  from  a 
feverish  dream,  and  look  anxiously  up  until  he  saw  her  bending 
over  him ;  when  he  would  take  her  hand,  lay  it  on  his  bosom,  and 
fall  asleep,  with  the  tranquillity  of  a  child.  In  this  way  he  died. 

My  first  impulse  on  hearing  this  humble  tale  of  affliction  was  to 
visit  the  cottage  of  the  mourner,  and  administer  pecuniary  assist 
ance,  and,  if  possible,  comfort.  I  found,  however,  on  inquiry,  that 
the  good  feelings  of  the  villagers  had  prompted  them  to  do  every 
thing  that  the  case  admitted  :  and  as  the  poor  know  best  how  to 
console  each  other's  sorrows,  I  did  not  venture  to  intrude. 

The  next  Sunday  I  was  at  the  village  church  ;  when,  to  my  sur 
prise,  I  saw  the  poor  old  woman  tottering  down  the  aisle  to  her 
accustomed  seat  on  the  steps  of  the  altar. 

She  had  made  an  effort  to  put  on  something  like  mourning  for 
her  son ;  and  nothing  could  be  more  touching  than  this  struggle 
between  pious  affection  and  utter  poverty :  a  black  ribbon  or  so — 
a  faded  black  handkerchief,  and  one  or  two  more  such  humble 
attempts  to  express  by  outward  signs  that  grief  which  passes  show. 
When  I  looked  round  upon  the  storied  monuments,  the  stately 
hatchments,  the  cold  marble  pomp,  with  which  grandeur  mourned 
magnificently  over  departed  pride,  and  turned  to  this  poor  widow, 
bowed  down  by  age  and  sorrow,  at  the  altar  of  her  God,  and  offer 
ing  up  the  prayers  and  praises  of  a  pious,  though  a  broken  heart,  I 
felt  that  this  living  monument  of  real  grief  was  worth  them  all. 

I  related  her  story  to  some  of  the  wealthy  members  of  the  con 
gregation,  and  they  were  moved  by  it.  They  exerted  themselves 
to  render  her  situation  more  comfortable,  and  to  lighten  her  afflic 
tions.  It  was,  however,  but  smoothing  a  few  steps  to  the  grave. 


#>  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

\     In  the  course  of  a  Sunday  or  two  after,  she  was  missed  from  he* 
;    usual   seat  at  church,  and  before  I  left  the  neighborhood,  I  heard, 
with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction,  that  she  had  quietly  breathed  her  last, 
and  had  gone  to  rejoin  those  she  loved,  in  that  world  where  srrrow 


I   ana  naa  gone  to  rejoin  tnose  sne  lovea,  in  ina 
1    is  never  known,  and  friends  are  never  parted. 


A  SUNDAY  IN  LONDON * 

IN  a  preceding  paper  I  have  spoken  of  an  English  Sunday  in  the 
country,  and  its  tranquillizing  effect  upon  the  landscape ;  but 
where  is  its  sacred  influence  more  strikingly  apparent  than  in 
the  very  heart  of  that  great  Babel,  London  ?  On  this  sacred  day, 
the  gigantic  monster  is  charmed  into  repose.  The  intolerable  din 
and  struggle  of  the  week  are  at  an  end.  The  shops  are  shut.  The 
fires  of  forges  and  manufactories  are  extinguished ;  and  the  sun, 
no  longer  obscured  by  murky  clouds  of  smoke,  pours  down  a 
sober,  yellow  radiance  into  the  quiet  streets.  The  few  pedestrians 
W£  meet,  instead  of  hurrying  forward  with  anxious  countenances, 
move  leisurely  along  ;  their  brows  are  smoothed  from  the  wrinkles 
t)f  business  and  care ;  they  have  put  on  their  Sunday  looks,  and 
Sunday  manners,  with  their  Sunday  clothes,  and  are  cleansed  in 
mind  as  well  as  in  person. 

And  now  the  melodious  clangor  of  bells  from  church  towers 
summons  their  several  flocks  to  the  fold.  Forth  issues  from  his 
mansion  the  family  of  the  decent  tradesman,  the  small  children  in 
the  advance ;  then  the  citizen  and  his  comely  spouse,  followed  by 
the  grown-up  daughters,  with  small  morocco-bound  prayer-books 
laid  in  the  folds  of  their  pocket-handkerchiefs.  The  housemaid 
looks  after  them  from  the  window,  admiring  the  finery  of  the 
family,  and  receiving,  perhaps,  a  nod  and  smile  from  her  young 
mistresses,  at  whose  toilet  she  has  assisted. 

Now  rumbles  along  the  carriage  of  some  magnate  of  the  city, 
peradventure  an  alderman  or  a  sheriff ;  and  now  the  patter  of 
many  feet  announces  a  procession  of  charity  scholars,  in  uniforms 
of  antique  cut,  and  each  with  a  prayer-book  under  his  arm. 

The  ringing  of  bells  is  at  an  end ;  the  rumbling  of  the  carriage 
has  ceased  ;  the  pattering  of  feet  is  heard  no  more  ;  the  flocks  are 
folded  in  ancient  churches,  cramped  up  in  by-lanes  and  corners  of 
the  crowded  city,  where  the  vigilant  beadle  keeps  watch,  like  the 

*  Part  of  a  sketch  omitted  in  the  preceding  editions. 


A  SUN  DA  Y  fN  L  OND  OJV.  §  1 

shepherd's  dog,  round  the  threshold  of  the  sanctuary.  For  a  time 
every  thing  is  hushed;  but  scon  is  heard  the  deep,  pervading 
sound  of  the  organ,  rolling  and  vibrating  through  the  empty  lanes 
and  courts;  and  the  sweet  chanting  of  the  choir  making  them 
resound  with  melody  and  praise.  Never  have  I  been  more  sensible 
of  the  sanctifying  effect  of  church  music,  than  when  I  have  heard 
it  thus  poured  forth,  like  a  river  of  joy,  through  the  inmost  recesses 
of  this  great  metropolis,  elevating  it,  as  it  were,  from  all  the  sordid 
pollutions  of  the  week ;  and  bearing  the  poor,  world-worn  soul  on  a 
tide  of  triumphant  harmony  to  heaven. 

The  morning  service  is  at  an  end.  The  streets  are  again  alive 
with  the  congregations  returning  to  their  homes,  but  soon  again 
relapse  into  silence.  Now  comes  on  the  Sunday  dinner,  which,  to 
the  city  tradesman,  is  a  meal  of  some  importance.  There  is  more 
leisure  for  social  enjoyment  at  the  board.  Members  of  the  family 
can  now  gather  together,  who  are  separated  by  the  laborious  occu 
pations  of  the  week.  A  school-boy  may  be  permitted  on  that  day 
to  come  to  the  paternal  home;  an  old  friend  of  the  family  takes  his 
accustomed  Sunday  seat  at  the  board,  tells  over  his  well-kno\\  n 
stories,  and  rejoices  young  and  old  with  his  well-known  jokes. 

On  Sunday  afternoon  the  city  pours  forth  its  legions  to  breathe  the 
fresh  air  and  enjoy  the  sunshine  of  the  parks  and  rural  environs. 
Satirists  may  say  what  they  please  about  the  rural  enjoyments  of  a 
London  citizen  on  Sunday,  but  to  me  there  is  something  delightful 
in  beholding  the  poor  prisoner  of  the  crowded  and  dusty  city 
enabled  thus  to  come  forth  once  a  week  and  throw  himself  upon 
the  green  bosom  of  nature.  He  is  like  a  child  restored  to  the 
mother's  breast ;  and  they  who  first  spread  out  these  noble  parks 
and  magnificent  pleasure-grounds  which  surround  this  huge 
metropolis,  have  done  at  least  as  much  for  its  health  and  morality, 
as  if  they  had  expended  the  amount  of  cost  in  hospitals,  prisons, 
and  penitentiaries. 


THE  BOAR'S  HEAD  TAVERN, 
EASTCHEAP. 

A  SHAKSPEARIAN   RESEARCH. 

"  A  tavern  Is  the  rendezvous,  the  exchange,  the  staple  of  good  fellows.  1 
have  heard  my  great-grandfather  tell,  IK>W  his  great-great-grandfather  should 
say,  that  it  was  an  old  proverb  when  his  great-grandfather  was  a  child,  that 
'it  was  a  good  wind  that  blew  a  man  to  the  wine/" 

MOTHER  BOMBIE. 

IT  is  a  pious  custom,  in  some  Catholic  countries,  to  honor  the 
memory  of  saints  by  votive  lights  burnt  before  their  pictures. 
The  popularity  of  a  saint,  therefore,  may  be  known  by  the 
number  of  these  offerings.  One,  perhaps,  is  left  to  moulder  in  the 
darkness  of  his  little  chapel ;  another  may  have  a  solitary  lamp  to 
throw  its  blinking  rays  athwart  his  effigy  ;  while  the  whole  blaze  of 
adoration  is  lavished  at  the  shrine  of  some  beautified  father  of 
renown.  The  wealthy  devotee  "brings  his  huge  luminary  of  wax; 
the  eager  zealot  his  seven-branched  candlestick,  and  even  the 
mendicant  pilgrim  is  by  no  means  satisfied  that  sufficient  light  is 
thrown  upon  the  deceased  unless  he  hangs  up  his  little  lamp  of 
smoking  oil.  The  consequence  is,  that  in  the  eagerness  to  enlighten, 
they  are  often  apt  to  obscure;  and  I  have  occasionally  seen  an 
unlucky  saint  almost  smoked  out  of  countenance  by  the  officious- 
ness  of  his  followers. 

In  like  manner  has  it  fared  with  the  immortal  Shakspeare. 
Every  writer  considers  it  his  bounden  duty  to  light  up  some  portion 
of  his  character  or  works,  and  to  rescue  some  merit  from  oblivion. 
The  commentator,  opulent  in  words,  produces  vast  tomes  of  disser 
tations  ;  the  common  herd  of  editors  send  up  mists  of  obscurity 
from  their  notes  at  the  bottom  of  each  page;  and  every  casual 
scribbler  brings  his  farthing  rushlight  of  eulogy  or  research,  to  swell 
the  cloud  of  incense  and  of  smoke. 

As  I  honor  all  established  usages  of  my  brethren  of  the  quill,  I 
thought  it  but  proper  to  contribute  my  mite  of  homage  to  the 
memory  of  the  illustrious  bard.  I  was  for  some  time,  however, 
sorely  puzzled  in  what  way  I  should  discharge  this  duty.  I  found 
myself  anticipated  in  every  attempt  at  a  new  reading  ;  every  doubt 
ful  line  had  been  explained  a  dozen  different  ways,  and  perplexed 
beyond  the  reach  of  elucidation  ;  and  as  to  fine  passages,  they  had 
all  been  amply  praised  by  previous  admirers ;  nay,  so  completely 


THE  BOARS  HEAD  TAVERN,  EASTCHEAP.       93 

had  the  bard,  of  late,  been  overlarded  with  panegyric  by  a  great 
German  critic,  that  it  was  difficult  now  to  find  even  a  fault  that  had 
not  been  argued  into  a  beauty. 

In  this  perplexity,  I  was  one  morning  turning  over  his  pages, 
when  I  casually  opened  upon  the  comic  scenes  of  Henry  IV.,  and 
was,  in  a  moment,  completely  lost  in  the  madcap  revelry  of  the 
Boar's  Head  Tavern.  So  vividly  and  naturally  are  these  scenes 
of  humor  depicted,  and  with  such  force  and  consistency  are  the 
characters  sustained,  that  they  become  mingled  up  in  the  mind 
with  the  facts  and  personages  of  real  life.  To  few  readers  does  it 
occur,  that  these  are  all  ideal  creations  of  a  poet's  brain,  and  that, 
in  sober  truth,  no  such  knot  of  merry  roysters  ever  enlivened  the 
dull  neighborhood  of  Eastcheap. 

For  my  part  I  love  to  give  myself  up  to  the  illusions  of  poetry. 
A  hero  of  fiction  that  never  existed  is  just  as  valuable  to  me  as  a 
hero  of  history  that  existed  a  thousand  years  since  :  and,  if  I  may 
be  excused  such  an  insensibility  to  the  common  ties  of  human 
nature,  I  would  not  give  up  fat  Jack  for  half  the  great  men  of 
ancient  chronicle.  What  have  the  heroes  of  yore  done  for  me,  or 
men  like  me  ?  They  have  conquered  countries  of  which  I  do  not 
enjoy  an  acre  ;  or  they  have  gained  laurels  of  which  I  do  not 
inherit  a  leaf;  or  they  have  furnished  examples  of  hair-brained 
prowess,  which  I  have  neither  the  opportunity  nor  the  inclination 
to  follow.  But,  old  Jack  Falstaff! — kind  Jack  Falstaff!— sweet 
Jack  Falstaff! — has  enlarged  the  boundaries  of  human  enjoyment; 
he  has  added  vast  regions  of  wit  and  good  humor,  in  which  the 
poorest  man  may  revel ;  and  has  bequeathed  a  never-failing 
inheritance  of  jolly  laughter,  to  make  mankind  merrier  and 
better  to  the  latest  posterity. 

A  thought  suddenly  struck  me  :  "I  will  make  a  pilgrimage  to 
Eastcheap,"  said  I,  closing  the  book,  "and  see  if  the  old  Boar's 
Head  Tavern  still  exists.  Who  knows  but  I  may  light  upon  some 
legendary  traces  of  Dame  Quickly  and  her  guests  ;  at  any  rate, 
there  will  be  a  kindred  pleasure  in  treading  the  halls  once  vocal 
with  their  mirth,  to  that  the  toper  enjoys  in  smelling  to  the  empty 
cask  once  filled  with  generous  wine." 

The  resolution  was  no  sooner  formed  than  put  in  execution.  I 
forbear  to  treat  of  the  various  adventures  and  wonders  I  encountered 
in  my  travels  ;  of  the  haunted  regions  of  Cock  Lane  ;  of  the  faded 
glories  of  Little  Britain,  and  the  parts  adjacent ;  what  perils  I  ran 
in  C ate aton -street  and  old  Jewry ;  of  the  renowned  Guildhall  ana 
its  two  stunted  giants,  the  pride  and  wonder  of  the  city,  and  the 
terror  of  all  unlucky  urchins ;  and  how  I  visited  London  Stone, 


94  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and  struck  my  staff  upon  it,  in  imitation  of  that  arch  rebel,  Jack 
Cade. 

Let  it  suffice  to  say,  that  I  at  length  arrived  in  merry  Eastcheap, 
that  ancient  region  of  wit  and  wassail,  where  the  very  names  of 
the  streets  relished  of  good  cheer,  as  Pudding  Lane  bears  testi 
mony  even  at  the  present  day.  For  Eastcheap,  says  old  Stowe, 
"was  always  famous  for  its  convivial  doings.  The  cookes  cried 
hot  ribbes  of  beef  roasted,  pies  well  baked,  and  other  victuals : 
there  was  clattering  of  pewter  pots,  harpe,  pipe,  and  sawtrie." 
Alas !  how  sadly  is  the  scene  changed  since  the  roaring  days  of 
Falstaff  and  old  Stowe  !  The  madcap  royster  has  given  place  to 
the  plodding  tradesman  ;  the  clattering  of  pots  and  the  sound  of 
"  harpe  and  sawtrie,"  to  the  din  of  carts  and  the  accursed  dinging 
of  the  dustman's  bell;  and  no  song  is  heard,  save,  haply,  the  strain 
of  some  siren  from  Billinsgate,  chanting  the  eulogy  of  deceased 
mackerel. 

I  sought  in  vain,  for  the  ancient  abode  of  Dame  Quickly.  The 
only  relic  of  it  is  a  boar's  head,  carved  in  relief  in  stone,  which 
formerly  served  as  the  sign,  but  at  present  is  built  into  the  parting 
line  of  two  houses,  which  stand  on  the  site  of  the  renowned  old 
tavern. 

For  the  history  of  this  little  abode  of  good  fellowship,  I  was 
referred  to  a  tallow-chandler's  widow  opposite,  who  had  been  born 
and  brought  up  on  the  spot,  and  was  looked  up  to  as  the  indisput 
able  chronicler  of  the  neighborhood.  I  found  her  seated  in  a  little 
back  parlor,  the  window  of  which  looked  out  upon  a  yard  about 
eight  feet  square,  laid  out  as  a  flower  garden  ;  while  a  glass  door 
opposite  afforded  a  distant  peep  of  the  street,  through  a  vista  of 
soap  and  tallow  candles  :  the  two  views,  which  comprised,  in  all 
probability,  her  prospects  in  life,  and  the  little  world  in  which  she 
had  lived,  and  moved,  and  had  her  being,  for  the  better  part 
of  a  century. 

To  be  versed  in  the  history  of  Eastcheap,  great  and  little,  from 
London  Stone  even  unto  the  Monument,  was  doubtless,  in  her 
opinion,  to  be  acquainted  with  the  history  of  the  universe.  Yet, 
with  all  this,  she  possessed  the  simplicity  of  true  wisdom,  and  that 
liberal  communicative  disposition,  which  I  have  generally  remarked 
in  intelligent  old  ladies,  knowing  in  the  concerns  of  their  neighbor 
hood. 

Her  information,  however,  did  not  extend  far  back  into  antiquity. 
She  could  throw  no  light  upon  the  history  of  the  Boar's  Head,  from 
the  time  that  Dame  Quickly  espoused  the  valiant  Pistol,  until  the 
great  fire  of  London,  when  it  was  unfortunately  burnt  down.  It 


THE  BOARS  HEAD  TA  VERN,  EASTCHEAP.       95 

was  soon  rebuilt,  and  continued  to  flourish  under  the  old  name  and 
sign,  until  a  dying  landlord,  struck  with  remorse  for  double  scores, 
bad  measures,  and  other  iniquities,  which  are  incident  to  the  sinful 
race  of  publicans,  endeavored  to  make  his  peace  with  heaven,  by 
bequeathing  the  tavern  to  St.  Michael's  Church,  Crooked  Lane, 
towards  the  supporting  of  a  chaplain.  For  some  time  the  vestry 
meetings  were  regularly  held  there;  but  it  was  observed  that  the 
old  Boar  never  held  up  his  head  under  church  government.  He 
gradually  declined,  and  finally  gave  his  last  gasp  about  thirty  years 
since.  The  tavern  was  then  turned  into  shops;  but  she  informed 
me  that  a  picture  of  it  was  still  preserved  in  St.  Michael's  Church, 
which  stood  just  in  the  rear.  To  get  a  sight  of  this  picture  was 
now  my  determination;  so,  having  informed  myself  of  the  abode 
of  the  sexton,  I  took  my  leave  of  the  venerable  chronicler  of  East- 
cheap,  my  visit  having  doubtless  raised  greatly  her  opinion  of  her 
legendary  lore,  and  furnished  an  important  incident  in  the  history 
of  her  life. 

It  cost  me  some  difficulty,  and  much  curious  inquiry,  to  ferret 
out  the  humble  hanger-on  to  the  church.  I  had  to  explore  Crooked 
Lane,  and  divers  little  alleys,  and  elbows,  and  dark  passages,  with 
which  this  old  city  is  perforated,  like  an  ancient  cheese,  or  a  worm- 
eaten  chest  of  drawers.  At  length  I  traced  him  to  a  corner  of  a 
small  court  surrounded  by  lofty  houses,  where  the  inhabitants 
enjoy  about  as  much  of  the  face  of  heaven,  as  a  community  of 
frogs  at  the  bottom  of  a  well. 

The  sexton  was  a  meek,  acquiescing  little  man,  of  a  bowing, 
lowly  habit:  yet  he  had  a  pleasant  twinkling  in  his  eye,  and,  if 
encouraged,  would  now  and  then  hazard  a  small  pleasantry;  such 
as  a  man  of  his  low  estate  might  venture  to  make  in  the  company 
of  high  churchwardens,  and  other  mighty  men  of  the  earth.  I 
found  him  in  company  with  the  deputy  organist,  seated  apart,  like 
Milton's  angels,  discoursing,  no  doubt,  on  high  doctrinal  points, 
and  settling  the  affairs  of  the  church  over  a  friendly  pot  of  ale — 
for  the  lower  classes  of  English  seldom  deliberate  on  any  weighty 
matter  without  the  assistance  of  a  cool  tankard  to  clear  their 
understandings.  I  arrived  at  the  moment  when  they  had  finished 
their  ale  and  their  argument,  and  were  about  to  repair  to  the 
church  to  put  it  in  order;  so  having  made  known  my  wishes,  I 
received  their  gracious  permission  to  accompany  them. 

The  church  of  St.  Michael's,  Crooked  Lane,  standing  a  short 
distance  from  Billingsgate,  is  enriched  with  the  tombs  of  many  fish- 
mongers  of  renown  ;  and  as  every  profession  has  its  galaxy  of 
glory,  and  its.  constellation  of  great  men,  I  presume  the  monument 


96  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

of  a  mighty  fishmonger  of  the  olden  time  is  regarded  with  as  muck 
reverence  by  succeeding  generations  of  the  craft,  as  poets  feel  on 
contemplating  the  tomb  of  Virgil,  or  soldiers  the  monument  of  a 
Marlborough  or  Turenne. 

I  cannot  but  turn  aside,  while  thus  speaking  of  illustrious  men, 
to  observe  that  St.  Michael's,  Crooked  Lane,  contains  also  the  ashes 
of  that  doughty  champion,  William  Walworth,  knight,  who  so 
manfully  clove  down  the  sturdy  wight,  Wat  Tyler,  in  Smithfield ;  a 
hero  worthy  of  honorable  blazon,  as  almost  the  only  Lord  Mayor 
on  record  famous  for  deeds  of  arms : — the  sovereigns  of  Cockney 
being  generally  renowned  as  the  most  pacific  of  all  potentates.* 

Adjoining  the  church,  in  a  small  cemetery,  immediately  under 
the  back  window  of  what  was  once  the  Boar's  Head,  stands  the 
tombstone  of  Robert  Preston,  whilom  drawer  at  the  tavern.  It  is 
now  nearly  a  century  since  this  trusty  drawer  of  good  liquor  closed 
his  bustling  career,  and  was  thus  quietly  deposited  within  call  of 
his  customers.  As  I  was  clearing  away  the  weeds  from  his  epitaph, 
the  little  sexton  drew  me  on  one  side  with  a  mysterious  air,  and 
informed  me  in  a  low  voice,  that  once  upon  a  time,  on  a  dark  win 
try  night,  when  the  wind  was  uaruly,  howling,  and  whistling,  bang 
ing  about  doors  and  windows,  and  twirling  weathercocks,  so  that 
the  living  were  frightened  out  of  their  beds,  and  even  the  dead 
could  not  sleep  quietly  in  their  graves,  the  ghost  of  honest  Preston, 
which  happened  to  be  airing  itself  in  the  church-yard,  was  attracted 
by  the  well-known  call  of  "waiter"  from' the  Boar's  Head,  and 
made  its  sudden  appearance  in  the  midst  of  a  roaring  club,  just  as 
the  parish  clerk  was  singing  a  stave  from  the  "  mirre  garland  of 
Captain  Death ; "  to  the  discomfiture  of  sundry  train-band  captains, 
and  the  conversion  of  an  infidel  attorney,  who  became  a  zealous 

*The  following  was  the  ancient  inscription  on  the  monument  of  this 
worthy;  which,  unhappily,  was  destroyed  in  the  great  conflagration. 

Hereunder  lyth  a  man  of  Fame, 
"William  Walworth  callyd  by  name ; 
Fishmonger  he  was  in  lyfftime  here, 
And  twise  Lord  Maior,  as  in  books  appere ; 
Who,  with  courage  stout  and  manly  myght, 
Slew  Jack  Straw  in  Kyng  Eichard's  sight. 
For  which  act  done,  and  trew  entent, 
The  Kyng  made  him  knyght  incontinent; 
And  gave  him  annes,  as  here  you  see, 
To  declare  his  fact  and  chivalclrie. 
He  left  this  lyff  the  yere  of  our  God 
Thirteen  hundred  fourscore  and  three  odd. 

An  error  In  the  foregoing  inscription  has  been  corrected  by  the  venerable 
Stowe.  "Whereas,"  saith  he,  "it  hath  been  far  spread  abroad  by  vulgar 
opinion,  that  the  rebel  smitten  down  so  manfully  by  Sir  William  Walworth, 
the  then  worthy  Lord  Maior,  was  named  Jack  Straw,  and  not  Wat  Tyler,  I 
thought  good  to  reconcile  this  rash-conceived  doubt  by  such  testimony  as  I 
3nd  in  ancient  and  good  records.  The  principal  leaders,  or  captains,  of  the 
commons,  were  Wat  Tyler,  as  the  first  man  \  the  second  was  John,  or  Jack, 
Straw,"  etc.,  etc.  STOWB'S  LONDON, 


THE  BOAR'S  HEAD  TAVERN,  EASTCHEAP.       97 

Christian  on  the  spot,  and  was  never  known  to  twist  the  truth  after 
wards,  except  in  the  way  of  business. 

I  beg  it  may  be  remembered,  that  I  do  not  pledge  myself  for  the 
authenticity  of  this  anecdote ;  though  it  is  well  known  that  the 
church-yards  and  by-corners  of  this  old  metropolis  are  very  much 
infested  with  perturbed  spirits  ;  and  every  one  must  have  heard  of 
the  Cock  Lane  ghost,  and  the  apparition  that  guards  the  regalia  in 
the  Tower,  which  has  frightened  so  many  bold  sentinels  almost 
out  of  their  wits. 

Be  all  this  as  it  may,  this  Robert  Preston  seems  to  have  been  a 
worthy  successor  to  the  nimble-tongued  Francis,  who  attended  upon 
the  revels  of  Prince  Hal ;  to  have  been  equally  prompt  with  his 
"  annon,  annon,  sir;  "  and  to  have  transcended  his  predecessor  in 
honesty ;  for  FalstafT,  the  veracity  of  whose  taste  no  man  will  ven 
ture  to  impeach,  flatly  accuses  Francis  of  putting  lime  in  his  sack ; 
whereas  honest  Preston's  epitaph  lauds  him  for  the  sobriety  of  his 
conduct,  the  soundness  of  his  wine,  and  the  fairness  of  his 
measure.*  The  worthy  dignitaries  T)f  the  church,  however,  did  not 
appear  much  captivated  by  the  sober  virtues  of  the  tapster ;  the 
deputy  organist,  who  had  a  moist  look  out  of  the  eye,  made  some 
shrewd  remarks  on  the  abstemiousness  of  a  man  brought  up  among 
full  hogsheads  ;  and  the  little  sexton  corroborated  his  opinion  by  a 
significant  wink  and  dubious  shake  of  the  head. 

Thus  far  my  researches,  though  they  threw  much  light  on  the 
history  of  tapsters,  fishmongers,  and  Lord  Mayors,  yet  disappointed 
me  in  the  great  object  of  my  quest,  the  picture  of  the  Boar's  Head 
Tavern.  No  such  painting  was  to  be  found  in  the  church  of  St 
Michael.  "Marry  and  amen!"  said  I,  "here  endeth  my 
research !  "  So  I  was  giving  the  matter  up,  with  the  air  of  a  baf 
fled  antiquary,  when  my  friend  the  sexton,  perceiving  me  to  be 
curious  in  everything  relative  to  the  old  tavern,  offered  to  show  me 
the  choice  vessels  of  the  vestry,  which  had  been  handed  down 
from  remote  times,  when  the  parish  meetings  were  held  at  the  Boar's 
Head.  These  were  deposited  in  the  parish  club-room,  which  had 

*  As  this  inscription  is  rife  with  excellent  morality,  I  transcribe  it  for  the 
admonition  of  delinquent  tapsters.  It  is,  no  doubt,  the  production  of  some 
choice  spirit,  who  once  frequented  the  Boar's  Head. 

Bacchus,  to  give  the  toping  world  surprise, 
Produced  one  sober  son,  and  here  he  lies. 
Though  rear'd  among  full  hogsheads,  he  defy'd 
The  charms  of  wine,  and  every  one  beside. 
0  reader,  if  to  justice  thou'rt  inclined. 
Keep  honest  Preston  daily  in  thy  mind. 
He  drew  good  wine,  took  care  to  fill  his  pots, 
Had  sundry  virtues  that  excused  his  faults. 
You  that  on  Bacchus  have  the  like  dependants. 
Pray  copy  Bob  in  measure  and  attcnoano*. 


98  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

been  transferred,  on  the  decline  of  the  ancient  establishment,  to  a 
tavern  in  the  neighborhood. 

A  few  steps  brought  us  to  the  house,  which  stands  No.  12  Miles 
Lane,  bearing  the  title  of  the  Mason's  Arms,  and  is  kept  by  Mas 
ter  Edward  Honeyball,  the  "  bully-rock  "  of  the  establishment.  It 
is  one  of  those  little  taverns  which  abound  in  the  heart  of  the  city, 
and  form  the  centre  of  gossip  and  intelligence  in  the  neighborhood. 
We  entered  the  bar-room,  which  was  narrow  and  darkling;  for  in 
these  close  lanes  but  few  rays  of  reflected  light  are  enabled  to 
struggle  down  to  the  inhabitants,  whose  broad  day  is  at  best  but  a 
tolerable  twilight.  The  room  was  partitioned  into  boxes,  each  con 
taining  a  table  spread  with  a  clean,  white  cloth,  ready  for  dinner. 
This  showed  that  the  guests  were  of  the  good  old  stamp,  and 
divided  their  day  equally,  for  it  was  but  just  one  o'clock.  At  the 
lower  end  of  the  room  was  a  clear  coal  fire,  before  which  a  breast 
of  lamb  was  roasting.  A  row  of  bright  brass  candlesticks  and 
pewter  mugs  glistened  along  the  mantlepiece,  and  an  old-fashioned 
clock  ticked  in  one  corner.  There  was  something  primitive  in 
this  medley  of  kitchen,  parlor,  and  hall,  that  carried  me  back  to 
earlier  times,  and  pleased  me.  The  place,  indeed,  was  humble, 
but  everything  had  that  look  of  order  and  neatness  which 
bespeaks  the  superintendence  of  a  notable  English  housewife.  A 
group  of  amphibious-looking  beings,  who  might  be  either  fishermen 
or  sailors,  were  regaling  themselves  in  one  of  the  boxes.  As  I  was 
a  visitor  of  rather  higher  pretentions,  I  was  ushered  into  a  little  mis 
shapen  back-room,  having  at  least  nine  corners.  It  was  lighted 
by  a  sky -light,  furnished  with  antiquated  leathern  chairs,  and  orna 
mented  with  the  portrait  of  a  fat  pig.  It  was  evidently  appro 
priated  to  particular  customers,  and  I  found  a  shabby  gentleman 
in  a  red  nose  and  oil-cloth  hat,  seated  in  one  corner,  meditating  on 
a  half-empty  pot  of  porter. 

The  old  sexton  had  taken  the  landlady  aside,  and  with  an  air  of 
profound  importance  imparted  to  her  my  errand.  Dame  Honey- 
ball  was  a  likely,  plump,  bustling  little  woman,  and  no  bad  substi 
tute  for  that  paragon  of  hostesses,  Dame  Quickly.  She  seemed 
delighted  with  an  opportunity  to  oblige  ;  and  hurrrying  upstairs  to 
the  archives  of  her  house,  where  the  precious  vessels  of  the  parish 
club  were  deposited,  she  returned,  smiling  and  courtesying,  with 
them  in  their  hands. 

The  first  she  presented  me  was  a  japanned  iron  tobacco-box,  of 
gigantic  size,  out  of  \vhich,  I  was  told,  the  vestry  had  smoked 
at  their  stated  meetings  since  time  immemorial ;  and  which  was 
never  suffered  to  be  profaned  by  vulgar  hands,  or  used  on  common 


THE  BOARS  HEAD  TAVERN,  EASTCHEAP.       99 

occasions.  I  received  it  with  becoming  reverence  ;  but  what  was 
my  delight,  at  beholding  on  its  cover  the  identical  painting  of 
which  I  was  in  quest !  There  was  displayed  the  outside  of  the 
Boar's  Head  Tavern,  and  before  the  door  was  to  be  seen  the  whole 
convivial  group,  at  table,  in  full  revel ;  pictured  with  that  wonder 
ful  fidelity  and  force,  with  which  the  portraits  of  renowned  generals 
and  commodores  are  illustrated  on  tobacco-boxes,  for  the  benefit 
of  posterity.  Lest,  however,  there  should  be  any  mistake,  the  cun 
ning  limner  had  warily  inscribed  the  names  of  Prince  Hal  and  Fal- 
staff  on  the  bottoms  of  their  chairs. 

On  the  inside  of  the  cover  was  an  inscription,  nearly  obliterated, 
recording  that  this  box  was  the  gift  of  Sir  Richard  Gore,  for  the  use 
of  the  vestry  meetings  at  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern,  and  that  it  was 
"repaired  and  beautified  by  his  successor,  Mr.  John  Packard, 
1767."  Such  is  a  faithful  description  of  this  august  and  venerable 
relic  ;  and  I  question  whether  the  learned  Scriblerius  comtemplated 
his  Roman  shield,  or  the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table  the  long- 
sought  san-greal,  with  more  exultation. 

While  I  was  meditating  on  it  with  enraptured  gaze,  Dame  Honey- 
ball,  who  was  highly  gratified  by  the  interest  it  excited,  put  in  my 
hands  a  drinking  cup  or  goblet,  which  also  belonged  to  the  vestry, 
and  was  descended  from  the  old  Boar's  Head.  It  bore  the  inscrip 
tion  of  having  been  the  gift  of  Francis  Wythers,  knight,  and  was 
held,  she  told  me,  in  exceeding  great  value,  being  considered  very 
"  antyke."  This  last  opinion  was  strengthened  by  the  shabby  gen 
tleman  in  the  red  nose  and  oil-cloth  hat,  and  whom  I  strongly  su» 
pected  of  being  a  lineal  descendant  from  the  valiant  Bardolph. 
He  suddenly  roused  from  his  meditation  on  the  pot  of  porter,  and, 
casting  a  knowing  look  at  the  goblet,  exclaimed,  "  Ay,  ay  !  the 
head  don't  ache  now  that  made  that  there  article  ! " 

The  great  importance  attached  to  this  memento  of  ancient 
revelry  by  modern  churchwardens  at  first  puzzled  me;  but  there  is 
nothing  sharpens  the  apprehension  so  much  as  antiquarian  research; 
for  I  immediately  perceived  that  this  could  be  no  other  than  the 
identical  "parcel-gilt  goblet"  on  which  Falstaff  made  his  loving, 
but  faithless  vow  to  Dame  Quickly ;  and  which  would,  of  course, 
be  treasured  up  with  care  among  the  regalia  of  her  domains,  as  a 
testimony  of  that  solemn  contract* 

Mine  hostess,  indeed,  gave  me  a  long  history  how  the  goblet  had 

*  Thou  didst  swear  to  me  upon  a  parcel-gilt  goblet,  sitting  in  my  Dolphin 
chamber,  at  the  round  table,  by  a  sea-coal  fire,  on  Wednesday,  in  whitsim- 
week,  when  the  prince  broke  thy  head  for  likening  his  father  to  a  singing  mnn 
at  Windsor;  thou  didst  swear  to  me  then,  as  I  was  washing  thy  wound,  to 
marry  me,  and  make  me  my  lady,  thy  wife.  Canst  thou  deny  it  ?— Henry  IV,. 


loo  THE  SKETCH'S  O  OK. 

been  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation.  She  also  enter- 
tained  me  with  many  particulars  concerning  the  worthy  vestrymen 
who  have  seated  themselves  thus  quietly  on  the  stools  of  the  ancient 
roysters  of  Eastcheap,  and,  like  so  many  commentators,  utter 
clouds  of  smoke  in  honor  of  Shakspeare.  These  I  forbear  to  relate, 
lest  my  readers  should  not  be  as  curious  in  these  matters  as  myself. 
Suffice  it  to  say,  the  neighbors,  one  and  all,  about  Eastcheap, 
believe  that  Falstaff  and  his  merry  crew  actually  lived  and  revelled 
there.  Nay,  there  are  several  legendary  anecdotes  concerning 
him  still  extant  among  the  oldest  frequenters  of  the  Mason's  Arms, 
which  they  give  as  transmitted  down  from  their  fore-fathers;  and 
Mr.  M'Kash,  an  Irish  hair-dresser,  whose  shcp  stands  on  the  site 
of  the  old  Boar's  Head,  has  several  dry  jokes  of  Fat  Jack's  not 
laid  down  in  the  books,  with  which  he  makes  his  customers  ready 
to  die  of  laughter. 

I  now  turned  to  my  friend  the  sexton  to  make  some  further 
inquiries,  but  I  found  him  sunk  in  pensive  meditation.  His  head 
had  declined  a  little  on  one  side ;  a  deep  sigh  heaved  from  the  very 
bottom  of  his  stomach;  and,  though  I  could  not  see  a  tear  trem 
bling  in  his  eye,  yet  a  moisture  was  evidently  stealing  from  a  cor 
ner  of  his  mouth.  I  followed  the  direction  of  his  eye  through  the 
door  which  stood  open,  and  found  it  fixed  wistfully  on  the  savory 
breast  of  lamb,  roasting  in  dripping  richness  before  the  fire. 

I  now  called  to  mind  that,  in  the  eagerness  of  my  recondite 
investigation,  I  was  keeping  the  poor  man  from  his  dinner.  My 
bowels  yearned  with  sympathy,  and,  putting  in  his  hand  a  small 
token  of  my  gratitude  and  goodness,  I  departed,  with  a  hearty 
benediction  on  him,  Dame  Honeyball,  and  the  Parish  Club  of 
Crooked  Lane; — not  forgetting  my  shabby,  but  sententious  friend, 
in  the  oil-cloth  hat  and  copper  nose. 

Thus  have  I  given  a  "tedious  brief"  account  of  this  interesting 
research,  for  which,  if  it  prove  too  short  and  unsatisfactory,  I  can 
only  plead  my  inexperience  in  this  branch  of  literature,  so  deserv 
edly  popular  at  the  present  day.  I  am  aware  that  a  more  skillfu/ 
illustrator  of  the  immortal  bard  would  have  swelled  the  materials 
I  have  touched  upon,  to  a  good,  merchantable  bulk;  comprising 
the  biographies  of  William  Walworth,  Jack  Straw,  and  Robert 
Preston;  some  notice  of  the  eminent  fishmongers  of  St.  Michael's; 
the  history  of  Eastcheap,  great  and  little;  private  anecdotes  of 
Dame  Honeyball  and  her  pretty  daughter,  whom  I  have  not  even 
mentioned  ;  to  say  nothing  of  a  damsel  tending  the  breast  ol  iamb 
(and  whom,  by  the  way,  I  remarked  to  be  a  comely  lass,  with  a 
neat  foot  and  ankle), — the  whole  enlivened  by  the  riots  of  Wai 
Tyler,  and  illuminated  by  the  great  fire  .of  London. 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITER  A  TURE.  lot 

All  this  I  leave,  as  a  rich  mine,  to  be  worked  by  future  com 
mentators  ;  nor  do  I  despair  of  seeing  the  tobacco-box,  and  the 
"parcel-gilt  goblet,"  which  I  have  thus  brought  to  light,  the 
subjects  of  future  engravings,  and  almost  as  fruitful  of  voluminous 
dissertations  and  disputes  as  the  suteld  of  Achilles,  or  the  far-famed 
Portland  vase. 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE, 


A   COLLOQUY   IN   WESTMINSTER  - 

I  know  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decays,  * 
And  what  by  mortals  in  this  world  id  brbagnf,  ' 
In  time's  great  period  shall  return  to  nought. 

I  know  that  all  the  muse's  heavenly  lays, 
With  toil  of  sprite  which  are  so  dearly  bought, 
As  idle  sounds,  of  few  or  none  are  sought, 

That  there  is  nothing  lighter  than  mere  praise. 

DKUMMOND  OF  HAWTHORNDEN. 

fT^HERE  are  certain  half-dreaming  moods  of  mind,  in  which  we 
naturally  steal  away  from  noise  and  glare,  and  seek  some 
quiet  haunt,  where  we  may  indulge  our  reveries  and  build 
our  air  castles  undisturbed.  In  such  a  mood  I  was  loitering  about 
the  old  gray  cloisters  of  Westminster  Abbey,  enjoying  that  luxury 
of  wandering  thought  which  one  is  apt  to  dignify  with  the  name 
of  reflection;  when  suddenly  an  interruption  of  madcap  boys  from 
Westminster  School,  playing  at  foot-ball,  broke  in  upon  the 
monastic  stillness  of  the  place,  making  the  vaulted  passages  and 
mouldering  tombs  echo  with  their  merriment.  I  sought  to  take 
refuge  from  their  noise  by  penetrating  still  deeper  into  the  solitudes 
of  the  pile,  and  applied  to  one  of  the  vergers  for  admission  to  the 
library.  He  conducted  me  through  a  portal  rich  with  the  crum 
bling  sculpture  of  former  ages,  which  opened  upon  a  gloomy  pas 
sage  leading  to  the  chapter-house  and  the  chamber  in  which 
doomsday  book  is  deposited.  Just  within  the  passage  is  a  small 
door  on  the  left.  To  this  the  verger  applied  a  key;  it  was  double 
locked,  and  opened  with  some  difficulty,  as  if  seldom  used.  We 
now  ascended  a  dark,  narrow  staircase,  and,  passing  through  a 
second  door,  entered  the  library. 

I  found  myself  in  a  lofty,  antique  hall,  the  roof  supported  by 
massive  joists  of  old  English  oak.  It  was  soberly  lighted  by  a  row 
of  Gothic  windows  at  a  considerable  height  from  the  floor,  and 
which  apparently  opened  upon  the  roofs  of  the  cloisters.  An 
ancient  picture  of  some  reverend  dignitary  of  the  church  in  his 


102  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

robes  hung  over  the  fireplace.  Around  the  hall  and  in  a  smaV 
gallery  were  the  books,  arranged  in  carved  oaken  cases.  They 
consisted  principally  of  old  polemical  writers,  and  were  much  more 
worn  by  time  than  use.  In  the  centre  of  the  library  was  a  solitary 
*able  with  two  or  three  books  on  it,  an  inkstand  without  ink,  and  a 
jbw  pens  parched  by  long  disuse.  The  place  seemed  fitted  for 
quiet  study  and  profound  meditation.  It  was  buried  deep  among 
the  massive  walls  of  the  abbey,  and  shut  up  from  the  tumult  of  the 
world.  I  could  only  hear  now  and  then  the  shouts  of  the  school 
boys  faintly  swelling  from  the  cloisters,  and  the  sound  of  a  bell 
tolling  for  prayeixjechoing  soberly  along  the  roofs  of  the  abbey, 
By  degrees  the  shouts  of  merriment  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and 
kf  leri^tji  dted' away  ;.*he  bell  ceased  to  toll,  and  a  profound  silence 
reigned'  through"  the  'dusky'  hall. 

I  had  taken  down  a  little  thick  quarto,  curiously  bound  in  parch 
ment,  with  brass  clasps,  and  seated  myself  at  the  table  in  a  vener 
able  elbow-chair.  Instead  of  reading,  however,  I  was  beguiled  by 
the  solemn,  monastic  air,  and  lifeless  quiet  of  the  place,  into  a  train 
of  musing.  As  I  looked  around  upon  the  old  volumes  in  their 
mouldering  covers,  thus  ranged  on  the  shelves,  and  apparently 
never  disturbed  in  their  repose,  I  could  not  but  consider  the  library 
a  kind  of  literary  catacomb,  where  authors,  like  mummies,  are 
piously  entombed,  and  left  to  blacken  and  moulder  in  dusty 
oblivion. 

How  much,  thought  I,  has  each  of  these  volumes,  now  thrust 
aside  with  such  indifference,  cost  some  aching  head !  how  many 
weary  days !  how  many  sleepless  nights  !  How  have  their  authors 
buried  themselves  in  the  solitude  of  cells  and  cloisters ;  shut  them 
selves  up  from  the  face  of  man,  and  the  still  more  blessed  face  of  na 
ture  ;  and  devoted  themselves  to  painful  research  and  intense  reflec 
tion!  And  all  for  what?  to  occupy  an  inch  of  dusty  shelf— to  have 
the  title  of  their  works  read  now  and  then  in  a  future  age,  by  some 
drowsy  churchman  or  casual  straggler  like  myself ;  and  in  another 
age  to  be  lost,  even  to  remembrance.  Such  is  the  amount  of  this 
boasted  immortality.  A  mere  temporary  rumor,  a  local  sound  ; 
like  the  tone  of  that  bell  which  has  just  tolled  among  these  towers, 
filling  the  ear  for  a  moment — lingering  transiently  in  echo — and 
then  passing  away  like  a  thing  that  was  not ! 

While  I  sat  half  murmuring,  half  meditating  these  unprofitable 
speculations  with  my  head  resting  on  my  hand,  I  was  thrumming 
with  the  other  hand  upon  the  quarto,  until  I  accidentally  loosened 
the  clasps  ;  when,  to  my  utter  astonishment,  the  little  book  gave 
two  or  three  yawns,  like  one  awaking  from  a  deep  sleep ;  then  a 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITER  A  TURE.  103 

husky  hem ;  and  at  length  began  to  talk.  At  first  its  voice  was 
very  hoarse  and  broken,  being  much  troubled  by  a  cobweb  which 
some  studious  spider  had  woven  across  it ;  and  having  probably 
contracted  a  cold  from  long  exposure  to  the  chills  and  damps  of 
the  abbey.  In  a  short  time,  however,  it  became  more  distinct,  and 
I  soon  found  it  an  exceedingly  fluent,  conversable  little  tome.  Its 
language,  to  be  sure,  was  rather  quaint  and  obsolete,  and  its  pro 
nunciation,  what,  in  the  present  day,  would  be  deemed  barbarous ; 
but  I  shall  endeavor,  as  far  as  I  am  able,  to  render  it  in  modern 
parlance. 

It  began  with  railings  about  the  neglect  of  the  world — about 
merit  being  suffered  to  languish  in  obscurity,  and  other  such  com 
monplace  topics  of  literary  repining,  and  complained  bitterly  that 
it  had  not  been  opened  for  more  than  two  centuries.  That  the  dean 
only  looked  now  and  then  into  the  library,  sometimes  took  down  a 
volume  or  two,  trifled  with  them  for  a  few  moments,  and  then 
returned  them  to  their  shelves.  "  What  a  plague  do  they  mean," 
said  the  little  quarto,  which  I  began  to  perceive  was  somewhat 
choleric,  "  what  a  plague  do  they  mean  by  keeping  several  thou 
sand  volumes  of  us  shut  up  here,  and  watched  by  a  set  of  old 
vergers,  like  so  many  beauties  in  a  harem,  merely  to  be  looked  at 
now  and  then  by  the  dean?  Books  were  written  to  give  pleasure 
and  to  be  enjoyed ;  and  I  would  have  a  rule  passed  that  the  dean 
should  pay  each  of  us  a  visit  at  least  once  a  year ;  or  if  he  is  not 
equal  to  the  task,  let  them  once  in  a  while  turn  loose  the  whole 
school  of  Westminster  among  us,  that  at  any  rate  we  may  now  and 
then  have  an  airing." 

"Softly,  my  worthy  friend,"  replied 4,  "you  are  not  aware  how 
much  better  you  are  off  than  most  books  of  your  generation.  By 
being  stored  away  in  this  ancient  library,  you  are  like  the  treasured 
remains  of  those  saints  and  monarchs,  which  lie  enshrined  in  the 
adjoined  chapels ;  while  the  remains  of  your  contemporary  mortals, 
left  to  the  ordinary  course  of  nature,  have  long  since  returned  to 
dust." 

"Sir,"  said  the  little  tome,  ruffling  his  leaves  and  looking  big, 
"I  was  written  for  all  the  world,  not  for  the  bookworms  of  an 
abbey.  I  was  intended  to  circulate  from  hand  to  hand,  like  other 
great  contemporary  works ;  but  here  have  I  been  clasped  up  for 
more  than  two  centuries,  and  might  have  silently  fallen  a  prey  to 
these  worms  that  are  playing  the  very  vengeance  with  my  intes 
tines,  if  you  had  not  by  chance  given  me  an  opportunity  of  uttering 
a  few  last  words  before  I  go  to  pieces." 

"  My  good  friend,"  rejoined  I,  "  had  you  been  left  to  the  circula- 


104  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

tion  of  which  you  speak,  you  would  long  ere  this  have  been  no 
more.  To  judge  from  your  physiognomy,  you  are  now  well  stricken 
in  years:  very  few  of  your  contemporaries  can  be  at  present  in 
existence ;  and  those  few  owe  their  longevity  to  being  immured  like 
yourself  in  old  libraries;  which,  suffer  me  to  add,  instead  of  liken 
ing  to  harems,  you  might  more  properly  and  gratefully  have 
compared  to  those  infirmaries  attached  to  religious  establishments, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  old  and  decrepit ;  and  where,  by  quiet  fostering 
and  no  employment,  they  often  endure  to  an  amazingly  good-for- 
nothing  old  age.  You  talk  of  your  contemporaries  as  if  in  circula 
tion—where  do  we  meet  with  their  works  ?  what  do  we  hear  of 
Robert  Groteste,  of  Lincoln  ?  No  one  could  have  toiled  harder 
than  he  for  immortality.  He  is  said  to  have  written  nearly  two 
hundred  volumes.  He  built,  as  it  were,  a  pyramid  of  books  to 
perpetuate  his  name  :  but,  alas  !  the  pyramid  has  long  since  fallen, 
and  only  a  few  fragments  are  scattered  in  various  libraries,  where 
they  are  scarcely  disturbed  even  by  the  antiquarian.  What  do  we 
hear  of  Giraldus  Cambrensis,  the  historian,  antiquary,  philosopher, 
theologian,  and  poet  ?  He  declined  two  bishoprics,  that  he  might 
shut  himself  up  and  write  for  posterity  ;  but  posterity  never  inquires 
after  his  labors.  What  of  Henry  of  Huntingdon,  who,  besides  a 
learned  history  of  England,  wrote  a  treatise  on  the  contempt  of  the 
world,  which  the  world  has  revenged  by  forgetting  him  ?  What  is 
quoted  of  Joseph  of  Exeter,  styled  the  miracle  of  his  age  in  classical 
composition  ?  Of  his  three  great  heroic  poems  one  is  lost  forever, 
excepting  a  mere  fragment ;  the  others  are  known  only  to  a  few  of 
the  curious  in  literature ;  and  as  to  his  love  verses  and  epigrams, 
they  have  entirely  disappeared.  What  is  in  current  use  of  John 
Wallis,  the  Franciscan,  who  acquired  the  name  of  the  tree  of  life  ? 
Of  William  of  Malmsbury; — of  Simeon  of  Durham; — of  Benedict 

of  Peterborough  ;-of  John  Hanvill  of  St.  Alban  ; — of " 

"  Prithee,  friend,"  cried  the  quarto,  in  a  testy  tone,  "  how  old  do 
you  think  me  ?  You  are  talking  of  authors  that  lived  long  before 
my  time,  and  wrote  either  in  Latin  or  French,  so  that  they  in  a 
manner  expatriated  themselves,  and  deserved  to  be  forgotten ;  * 
but  I,  sir,  was  ushered  into  the  world  from  the  press  of  the 
renowned  WTynkyn  de  Worde.  I  was  written  in  my  own  native 
tongue,  at  a  time  when  the  language  had  become  fixed  ;  and, 
indeed,  I  was  considered  a  model  of  pure  and  elegant  English." 

*  In  Latin  and  French  hath  many  soueralne  wittes  had  great  delvte  to  endlte, 
and  have  many  noble  thinges  fuliilrte,  but  ccrtos  there  ben  some  that  speaken 
their  poisye  in  French,  of  which  spoche  the  Frenchmen  have  as  good  a  fan- 
tasye  as  we  have  in  hearying  of  Frenchmen's  Englishe.— C/iawcer'  Testament 


THE  MUTABILITY  Of  LITER  A  TURE.  105 

(I  should  observe  that  these  remarks  were  couched  in  such  intol 
erably  antiquated  terms,  that  I  have  had  infinite  difficulty  in  ren 
dering  them  into  modern  phraseology.) 

"  I  cry  your  mercy,"  said  I,  "  for  mistaking  your  age  ;  but  it 
matters  little  :  almost  all  the  writers  of  your  time  have  likewise 
passed  into  forgetfulness  ;  and  De  Worde's  publications  are  mere 
literary  rarities  among  book-collectors.  The  purity  and  stability  oi 
language,  too,  on  which  you  found  your  claims  to  perpetuity,  have 
been  the  fallacious  dependence  of  authors  of  every  age,  even  back 
to  the  times  of  the  worthy  Robert  of  Gloucester,  who  wrote  his  his 
tory  in  rhymes  of  mongrel  Saxon.*  Even  now  many  talk  oi 
Spenser's  '  well  of  pure  English  undefiled,'  as  if  the  language  ever 
sprang  from  a  well  or  fountain-head,  and  was  not  rather  a  mere 
confluence  of  various  tongues,  perpetually  subject  to  changes  and 
inter-mixtures.  It  is  this  which  has  made  English  literature  so 
extremely  mutable,  and  the  reputation  built  upon  it  so  fleeting. 
Unless  thought  can  be  committed  to  something  more  permanent 
and  unchangeable  than  such  a  medium,  even  thought  must  share 
the  fate  of  everything  else,  and  fall  into  decay.  This  should 
serve  as  a  check  upon  the  vanity  and  exultation  of  the  most  popu 
lar  writer.  He  finds  the  language  in  which  he  has  embarked  his 
fame  gradually  altering,  and  subject  to  the  dilapidations  of  time 
and  the  caprice  of  fashion.  He  looks  back  and  beholds  the  early 
authors  of  his  country,  once  the  favorites  of  their  day,  supplanted 
by  modern  writers.  A  few  short  ages  have  covered  them  with 
obscurity,  and  their  merits  can  only  be  relished  by  the  quaint  taste 
of  the  bookworm.  And  such,  he  anticipates,  will  be  the  fate  of 
his  own  work,  which,  however  it  may  be  admired  in  its  day,  and 
held  up  as  a  model  of  purity,  will  in  the  course  of  years  grow  anti 
quated  and  obsolete  ;  until  it  shall  become  almost  as  unintelligible 
in  its  native  land  as  an  Egyptian  obelisk,  or  one  of  those  Runic 
inscriptions  said  to  exist  in  the  deserts  of  Tartary.  I  declare,'" 
added  I,  with  some  emotion,  "when  I  contemplate  a  modern 
library,  filled  with  new  works,  in  all  the  bravery  of  rich  gilding 
and  binding,  I  feel  disposed  to  sit  down  and  weep  ;  like  the  good 
Xerxes,  when  he  surveyed  his  army,  pranked  out  in  all  the  splendor 
of  military  array,  and  reflected  that  in  one  hundred  years  not  one 
of  them  would  be  in  existence !  " 

*  Holinshed,  in  his  Chronicle,  observes,  "afterwards,  also,  by  diligent  travell 
of  Geftry  Chaucer  and  of  John  Gowre,  in  the  time  of  Richard  the  Second,  and 
after  them  of  John  Scogan  and  John  Lydgate,  monke  of  Berrie  our  said 
toong  was  brought  to  an  excellent  passe,  notwithstanding  that  it  never  came 
into  the  type  of  perfection  until  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  wherein  John 
Jewell,  Bishop  of  Sarum,  John  Fox,  and  sundrie  learned  and  excellent 
writers,  have  fully  accomplished  the  ornature  of  the  same,  to  their  great 
praise  and  immortal,  commendation." 


106  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

"Ah,"  said  the  little  quarto,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "  I  see  how  it 
is;  these  modern  scribblers  have  superseded  all  the  good  old 
authors.  I  suppose  nothing  is  read  now-a-days  but  Sir  Philip 
Sydney's  Arcadia,  Sackville's  stately  plays,  and  Mirror  for  Magis 
trates,  or  the  fine-spun  euphuisms  of  the  'unparalleled  John 
Lyly.'" 

"There  you  are  again  mistaken,"  said  I;  "the  writers  whom 
you  suppose  in  vogue,  because  they  happened  to  be  so  when  you 
were  last  in  circulation,  have  long  since  had  their  day.  Sir  Philip 
Sydney's  Arcadia,  the  immortality  of  which  was  so  fondly  pre 
dicted  by  his  admirers,*  and  which,  in  truth,  is  full  of  noble 
thoughts,  delicate  images,  and  graceful  turns  of  language,  is  now 
scarcely  ever  mentioned.  Sackville  has  strutted  into  obscurity ; 
and  even  Lyly,  though  his  writings  were  once  the  delight  of  a 
court,  and  apparently  perpetuated  by  a  proverb,  is  now  scarcely 
known  even  by  name.  A  whole  crowd  of  authors  who  wrote  and 
wrangled  at  the  time,  have  likewise  gone  down,  with  all  their  writ 
ings  and  their  controversies.  Wave  after  wave  of  succeeding  liter 
ature  has  rolled  over  them,  until  they  are  buried  so  deep,  that  it  is 
only  now  and  then  that  some  industrious  diver  after  fragments  of 
antiquity  brings  up  a  specimen  for  the  gratification  of  the  curious. 

"  For  my  part,"  I  continued,  "  I  consider  this  mutability  of  lan 
guage  a  wise  precaution  of  Providence  for  the  benefit  of  the  world 
at  large,  and  of  authors  in  particular.  To  reason  from  analogy 
we  daily  behold  the  varied  and  beautiful  tribes  of  vegetables 
springing  up,  flourishing,  adorning  the  fields  for  a  short  time,  and 
then  fading  into  dust,  to  make  way  for  their  successors.  Were  not 
this  the  case,  the  fecundity  of  nature  would  be  a  grievance  instead 
of  a*  blessing.  The  earth  would  groan  with  rank  and  excessive 
vegetation,  and  its  surface  become  a  tangled  wilderness.  In  like 
manner  the  works  of  genius  and  learning  decline,  and  make  way 
for  subsequent  productions.  Language  gre  dually  varies,  and  with 
it  fade  away  the  writings  of  authors  who  have  flourished  their 
allotted  time  ;  otherwise,  the  creative  powers  of  genius  would  over 
stock  the  world,  and  the  mind  would  be  completely  bewildered  HI 
the  endless  mazes  of  literature.  Formerly,  there  were  some 
restraints  on  this  excessive  multiplication.  Works  had  to  be  trans 
cribed  by  hand,  which  was  a  slow  and  laborious  operation  ;  they 

*  Live  ever  sweete  booke ;  the  simple  image  of  his  gentle  witt,  and  the 
golden-pillar  of  his  noble  courage ;  and  ever  notify  unto  the  world  that  the 
writer  was  the  secretary  of  eloquence,  the  breath  of' the  muses,  the  honey-bee 
of  the  daintyest  flowers  of  witt  and  arte,  the  pith  of  morale  and  intellectual 
virtueSj  the  arme  of  Bellona  in  the  field,  the  tonge  of  Suada  in  the  chamber, 
the  sprite  of  Practise  in  esse,  and  the  paragon  of  excellency  in  print.— Har 
vey  Pterce's  Supererogation. 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITER  A  TURE.  Io? 

were  written  either  on  parchment,  which  was  expensive,  so  that 
one  work  was  often  erased  to  make  way  for  another  ;  or  on  papy 
rus,  which  was  fragile  and  extremely  perishable.  Authorship  was 
a  limited  and  unprofitable  craft,  pursued  chiefly  by  monks  in  the 
leisure  and  solitude  of  their  cloisters.  The  accumulation  of  manu 
scripts  was  slow  and  costly,  and  confined  almost  entirely  to  mon 
asteries.  To  these  circumstances  it  may,  in  some  measure,  be 
owing  that  we  have  not  been  inundated  by  the  intellect  of  anti 
quity  ;  that  the  fountains  of  thought  have  not  been  broken  up, 
and  modern  genius  drowned  in  the  deluge.  But  the  inventions  of 
paper  and  the  press  have  put  an  end  to  all  these  restraints.  They 
have  made  every  one  a  writer,  and  enabled  every  mind  to  pour 
'tself  into  print,  and  diffuse  itself  over  the  whole  intellectual  world. 
The  consequences  are  alarming.  The  stream  of  literature  has 
swollen  into  a  torrent — augmented  into  a  river — expanded  into  a 
sea.  A  few  centuries  since,  five  or  six  hundred  manuscripts  con 
stituted  a  great  library  ;  but  what  would  you  say  to  libraries  such 
as  actually  exist,  containing  three  or  four  hundred  thousand 
volumes ;  legions  of  authors  at  the  same  time  busy  ;  and  the  press 
going  on  with  fearfully  increasing  activity,  to  double  and  quad 
ruple  the  number?  Unless  some  unforseen  mortality  should  break 
out  among  the  progeny  of  the  muse,  now  that  she  has  become  so 
prolific,  I  tremble  for  posterity.  I  fear  the  mere  fluctuation  of 
language  will  not  be  sufficient.  Criticism  may  do  much.  It 
increases  with  the  increase  of  literature,  and  resembles  one  of  those 
salutary  checks  on  population  spoken  of  by  economists.  All 
possible  encouragement,  therefore,  should  be  given  to  the  growth 
of  critics,  good  or  bad.  But  I  fear  all  will  be  in  vain  ;  let  criti 
cism  do  what  it  may,  writers  will  write,  printers  will  print,  and  the 
world  will  inevitably  be  overstocked  with  good  books.  It  will  soon 
be  the  employment  of  a  life-time  merely  to  learn  their  names. 
Many  a  man  of  passable  information,  at  the  present  day,  reads 
scarcely  anything  but  reviews  ;  and  before  long  a  man  of  erudition 
will  be  little  better  than  a  mere  walking  catalogue." 

"  My  very  good  sir,"  said  the  little  quarto,  yawning  most  drearily 
in  my  face,  "  excuse  my  interrupting  you,  but  I  perceive  you  are 
rather  given  to  prose.  I  would  ask  the  fate  of  an  author  who  was 
making  some  noise  just  as  I  left  the  world  His  reputation,  how 
ever,  was  considered  quite  temporary.  The  learned  shook  their 
heads  at  him,  for  he  was  a  poor,  half-educated  varlet,  that  knew 
little  of  Latin,  and  nothing  of  Greek,  and  had  been  obliged  to  run 
me  country  for  deer-stealing.  I  think  his  name  was  Shaksneare. 
I  presume  he  soon  sunk  into  oblivion." 


168  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  I,  "it  is  owing  to  that  very  man  that 
the  literature  of  his  period  has  experienced  a  duration  beyond  the 
ordinary  term  of  English  literature.  There  rise  authors  now  and 
then,  who  seem  proof  against  the  mutability  of  language,  because 
they  have  rooted  themselves  in  the  unchanging  principles  of  human 
nature.  They  are  like  gigantic  trees  that  we  sometimes  see  on  the 
banks  of  a  stream  ;  which,  by  their  vast  and  deep  roots,  penetrat 
ing  through  the  mere  surface,  and  laying  hold  on  the  very  founda 
tions  of  the  earth,  preserve  the  soil  around  them  from  being  swept 
away  by  the  ever-flowing  current,  and  hold  up  many  a  neighboring 
plant,  and,  perhaps,  worthless  weed,  to  perpetuity.  Such  is  the 
case  with  Shakspeare,  whom  we  behold  defying  the  encroachments 
of  time,  retaining  in  modern  use  the  language  and  literature  of  his 
day,  and  giving  duration  to  many  an  indifferent  author,  merely 
from  having  flourished  in  his  vicinity.  But  even  he,  I  grieve  to 
say,  is  gradually  assuming  the  tint  of  age,  and  his  whole  form  is 
overrun  by  a  profusion  of  commentators,  who,  like  clambering 
vines  and  creepers,  almost  bury  the  noble  plant  that  upholds 
them." 

Here  the  little  quarto  began  to  heave  his  sides  and  chuckle,  until 
at  length  he  broke  out  in  a  plethoric  fit  of  laughter  that  had  well 
nigh  choked  him,  by  reason  of  his  excessive  corpulency.  "  Mighty 
well!"  cried  he,  as  soon  as  he  could  recover  breath,  "mighty 
well !  and  so  you  would  persuade  me  that  the  literature  of  an  age 
is  to  be  perpetuated  by  a  vagabond  deer-stealer !  by  a  man  without 
learning;  by  a  poet,  forsooth — a  poet!"  And  here  he  wheezed 
forth  another  fit  of  laughter. 

I  confess  that  I  felt  somewhat  nettled  at  this  rudeness,  which, 
however,  I  pardoned  on  account  of  his  having  flourished  in  a  less 
polished  age.  I  determined,  nevertheless,  not  to  give  up  my  point. 

"  Yes,"  resumed  I,  pos^ively,  "  a  poet ;  for  of  all  writers  he  has 
the  best  chance  for  immortality.  Others  my  write  from  the  head, 
but  he  writes  from  the  heart,  and  the  heart  will  always  understand 
him.  He  is  the  faithful  portrayer  of  nature,  whose  features  are 
always  the  same,  and  always  interesting.  Prose  writers  are 
voluminous  and  unwieldy;  their  pages  are  crowded  with  common 
places,  and  their  thoughts  expanded  into  tediousness.  But  with 
the  true  poet  every  thing  is  terse,  touching,  or  brilliant.  He  gives 
the  choicest  thoughts  in  the  choicest  language.  He  illustrates  them 
by  everything  that  he  sees  most  striking  in  nature  and  art.  He 
enriches  them  by  pictures  of  human  life,  such  as  it  is  passing  before 
him.  His  writings,  therefore,  contain  the  spirit,  the  aroma,  if  I 
may  use  the  phrase,  of  the  age  in  which  he  lives.  They  arc 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE.  109 

caskets  which  inclose  within  a  small  compass  the  wealth  of  the 
language — its  family  jewels,  which  are  thus  transmitted  in  a  port 
able  form  to  posterity.  The  setting  may  occasionally  be  antiquated, 
and  require  now  and  then  to  be  renewed,  as  in  the  case  of  Chaucer; 
but  the  brilliancy  and  intrinsic  value  of  the  gems  continue  unaltered. 
Cast  a  look  back  over  the  long  reach  of  literary  history.  Whal 
vast  valleys  of  dulness,  filled  with  monkish  legends  and  academical 
controversies !  what  bogs  of  theogical  speculations !  what  dreary 
wastes  of  metaphysics!  Here  and  there  only  do  we  behold  the 
heaven-illuminated  bards,  elevated  like  beacons  on  their  widely- 
separate  heights,  to  transmit  the  pure  light  of  poetical  intelligence 
from  age  to  age."* 

I  was  just  about  to  launch  forth  into  eulogiums  upon  the  poets  of 
the  day,  when  the  sudden  opening  of  the  door  caused  me  to  turn 
my  head.  It  was  the  verger,  who  came  to  inform  me  that  it  was 
time  to  close  the  library.  I  sought  to  have  a  parting  word  with  the 
quarto,  but  the  worthy  little  tome  was  silent ;  the  clasps  were  closed  : 
and  it  looked  perfectly  unconscious  of  all  that  had  passed.  I  have 
been  to  the  library  two  or  three  times  since,  and  have  endeavored 
to  draw  it  into  further  conversation,  but  in  vain  ;  and  whether  all 
this  rambling  colloquy  actually  took  place,  or  whether  it  was 
another  of  those  odd  day-dreams  to  which  I  am  subject,  I  have 
never  to  this  moment  been  able  to  discover. 

As  are  the  golden  leves 

That  drop  from  poet's  head  ! 
Which  doth  surmount  our  common  talke 

As  farre  as  dross  doth  lead. 

Churchyard. 

*  Thorow  earth  and  waters  deepe, 

The  pen  by  skill  doth  passe  : 
And  featly  nyps  the  worldes  abuse, 

And  shoes  us  in  a  glasse, 
The  vertu  and  the  vice 

Of  every  wight  alyve ; 
The  honey  comb  that  bee  doth  mafce 

ftnotsoewvetinhyre, 


RURAL  FUNERALS. 

Here's  a  few  flowers!  but  about  midnight  more: 
The  herbs  that  have  on  them  cold  dew  o'  the  night; 

Are  strewings  fitt'st  for  graves 

You  were  as  flowers  now  wither'd ;  even  so 
These  herblets  shall,  which  we  upon  you  strow. 

CTMBELINE. 

AMONG  the  beautiful  and  simple-hearted  customs  of  rural  life 
which  still  linger  in  some  parts  of  England,  are  those  of 
strewing  flowers  betore  the  funerals,  and  planting  them  at  the 
graves  of  departed  friends.  These,  it  is  said,  are  the  remains  of 
some  of  the  rites  of  the  primitive  church;  but  they  are  of  still 
higher  antiquity,  having  been  observed  among  the  Greeks  and 
Romans,  and  frequently  mentioned  by  their  writers,  and  were,  no 
doubt,  the  spontaneous  tributes  of  unlettered  affection,  originating 
long  before  art  had  tasked  itself  to  modulate  sorrow  into  song,  or 
story  it  on  the  monument.  They  are  now  only  to  be  met  with  in 
the  most  distant  and  retired  places  of  the  kingdom,  where  fashion 
and  innovation  have  not  been  able  to  throng  in,  and  trample  out 
all  the  curious  and  interesting  traces  of  the  olden  time. 

In  Glamorganshire,  we  are  told,  the  bed  whereon  the  corpse  lies 
is  covered  with  flowers,  a  custom  alluded  to  in  one  of  the  wild  and 
plaintive  ditties  of  Ophelia : 

White  his  shroud  as  the  mountain  snow 

Larded  all  with  sweet  flowers : 
Which  be-wept  to  the  grave  did  go, 

With  true  love  showers. 

There  is  also  a  most  delicate  and  beautiful  rite  observed  in  some 
of  the  remote  villages  of  the  south,  at  the  funeral  of  a  female  who 
has  died  young  and  unmarried.  A  chaplet  of  white  flowers  is 
borne  before  the  corpse  by  a  young  girl  nearest  in  age,  size,  and 
resemblance,  and  is  afterwards  hung  up  in  the  church  over  the 
accustomed  seat  of  the  deceased.  These  chaplets  are  sometimes 
made  of  white  paper,  in  imitation  of  flowers,  and  inside  of  them  is 
generally  a  pair  of  white  gloves.  They  are  intended  as  emblems 
of  the  purity  of  the  deceased,  and  the  crown  of  glory  which  she  has 
received  in  heaven. 

In  some  parts  of  the  country,  also,  the  dead  are  carried  to  the 
grave  with  the  singing  of  psalms  and  hymns :  a  kind  of  triumph, 
"to  show,"  says  Bourne,  ''that  they  have  finished  their  course  with 


^  URAL  FUNERALS.  1 1 1 

joy,  and  are  become  conquerors."  This,  I  am  informed,  is 
observed  in  some  of  the  northern  counties,  particularly  in  North 
umberland,  and  it  has  a  pleasing,  though  melancholy  effect,  to 
hear,  of  a  still  evening,  in  some  lonely  country  scene,  the  mournful 
melody  of  a  funeral  dirge  swelling  from  a  distance,  and  to  see  the 
train  slowly  moving  along  the  landscape. 

Thus,  thus,  and  thus,  we  compass  round 
Thy  harmlesse  and  unhaunted  ground, 
And  as  we  sing  thy  dirge,  we  will 

The  daffodil! 

And  other  flowers  lay  upon 
The  altar  of  our  love,  thy  stone. 

HERRICK. 

There  is  also  a  solemn  respect  paid  by  the  traveller  to  the  passing 
funeral  in  these  sequestered  places ;  for  such  spectacles,  occurring 
among  the  quiet  abodes  of  nature,  sink  deep  into  the  souL  As  the 
mourning  train  approaches,  he  pauses,  uncovered,  to  let  it  go  by ; 
he  then  follows  silently  in  the  rear ;  sometimes  quite  to  the  grave, 
at  other  times  for  a  few  hundred  yards,  and,  having  paid  this  trib 
ute  of  respect  to  the  deceased,  turns  and  resumes  his  journey. 

The  rich  vein  of  melancholy  which  runs  through  the  English 
character,  and  gives  it  some  of  its  most  touching  and  ennobling 
graces,  is  finely  evidenced  in  these  pathetic  customs,  and  in  the 
solicitude  shown  by  the  common  people  for  an  honored  and  a 
peaceful  grave.  The  humblest  peasant,  whatever  may  be  his 
lowly  lot  while  living,  is  anxious  that  some  little  respect  may  be 
paid  to  his  remains.  Sir  Thomas  Overbury,  describing  the  "  faire 
and  happy  milkmaid,"  observes,  "thus  lives  she,  and  all  her  care 
is,  that  she  may  die  in  the  spring-time,  to  have  store  of  flowers 
stucke  upon  her  windingsheet. "  The  poets,  too,  who  always 
breathe  the  feeling  of  a  nation,  continually  advert  to  this  fond 
solicitude  about  the  grave.  In  "The  Maid's  Tragedy,"  by  Beau 
mont  and  Fletcher,  there  is  a  beautiful  instance  of  the  kind, 
describing  the  capricious  melancholy  of  a  broken-hearted  girl : 

When  she  sees  a  bank 

Stuck  full  of  flowers,  she,  with  a  sigh,  will  tell 
Her  servants,  what  a  pretty  place  it  were 
To  bury  lovers  in;  and  make  her  maids 
Pluck  'em,  and  strew  her  over  like  a  corse. 

The  custom  of  decorating  graves  was  once  universally  prevalent : 
osiers  were  carefully  bent  over  them  to  keep  the  turf  uninjured,  and 
about  them  were  planted  evergreens  and  flowers.  "We  adorn 
their  graves,"  says  Evelyn,  in  his  Sylva,  "with  flowers  and  redo- 


1 12  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

lent  plants,  just  emblems  of  the  life  of  man,  which  has  been  com 
pared  in  Holy  Scriptures  to  those  fading  beauties,  whose  roots 
being  buried  in  dishonor,  rise  again  in  glory."  This  usage  has 
now  become  extremely  rare  in  England ;  but  it  may  still  be  met 
with  in  the  church-yards  of  retired  villages,  among  the  Welsh 
mountains ;  and  I  recollect  an  instance  of  it  at  the  small  town  of 
Ruthen,  which  lies  at  the  head  of  the  beautiful  vale  of  Clewyd.  1 
have  been  told  also  by  a  friend,  who  was  present  at  the  funeral  of  a 
young  girl  in  Glamorganshire,  that  the  female  attendants  had  their 
aprons  full  of  flowers,  which,  as  soon  as  the  body  was  interred,  they 
stuck  about  the  grave. 

He  noticed  several  graves  which  had  been  decorated  in  the  same 
manner.  As  the  flowers  had  been  merely  stuck  in  the  ground,  and 
not  planted,  they  had  soon  withered,  and  might  be  seen  in  various 
states  of  decay;  some  drooping,  others  quite  perished.  They  were 
afterwards  to  be  supplanted  by  holly,  rosemary,  and  other  ever 
greens  ;  which  on  some  graves  had  grown  to  great  luxuriance,  and 
overshadowed  the  tombstones. 

There  was  formerly  a  melancholy  fancifulness  in  the  arrange 
ment  of  these  rustic  offerings,  that  had  something  in  it  truly  poet 
ical.  The  rose  was  sometimes  blended  with  the  lily,  to  form  a  general 
emblem  of  frail  mortality.  "This  sweet  flower,"  said  Evelyn, 
"  borne  on  a  branch  set  with  thorns,  and  accompanied  with  the 
lily,  are  natural  hieroglyphics  of  our  fugitive,  umbratile,  anxious, 
and  transitory  life,  which,  making  so  fair  a  show  for  a  time,  !s  not 
yet  without  its  thorns  and  crosses."  The  nature  and  color  of  the 
flowers,  and  of  the  ribbons  with  which  they  were  tied,  had  often  a 
particular  reference  to  the  qualities  or  story  of  the  deceased,  or 
were  expressive  of  the  the  feelings  of  the  mourner.  In  an  old  poem, 
entitled  "  Corydon's  Doleful  Knell,"  a  lover  specifies  the  decora 
tions  he  intends  to  use : 

A  garland  shall  be  framed 

By  art  and  nature's  skill, 
Of  sundry-colored  flowers, 

In  token  of  good-wilL 

And  sundry-color' d  ribands 

On  it  I  will  bestow  ; 
But  chiefly  blacke  and  yellowe 

With  her  to  grave  shall  go. 

I'll  deck  her  tomb  with  flowers, 

The  rarest  ever  seen  ; 
And  with  my  tears  as  showers, 

1 11  keep  them  fresh  and  green. 


RURAL  FUNERALS.  113 

The  white  rose,  we  are  told,  was  planted  at  the  grave  of  a  virgin ; 
her  chaplet  was  tied  with  white  ribbons,  in  token  of  her  spotless 
innocence  ;  though  sometimes  black  ribbons  were  intermingled,  to 
bespeak  the  grief  of  the  survivors.  The  red  rose  was  occasionally 
used  in  remembrance  of  such  as  had  been  remarkable  for  benevo 
lence  ;  but  roses  in  general  were  appropriated  to  the  graves  of 
lovers.  Evelyn  tells  us  that  the  custom  was  not  altogether  extinct 
in  his  time,  near  his  dwelling  in  the  county  of  Surrey,  "  where  the 
maidens  yearly  planted  and  decked  the  graves  of  their  defunct 
sweethearts  with  rose-bushes.'*  And  Camden  likewise  remarks,  in 
his  Britannia:  "Here  is  also  a  certain  custom,  observed  time  out 
of  mind,  of  planting  rose-trees  upon  the  graves,  especially  by  the 
young  men  and  maids  who  have  lost  their  loves;  so  that  this 
church-yard  is  now  full  of  them." 

When  the  deceased  had  been  unhappy  in  their  loves,  emblems 
of  a  more  gloomy  character  were  used,  such  as  the  yew  and  cypress ; 
and  if  flowers  were  strewn,  they  were  of  the  most  melancholy 
colors.  Thus,  in  poems  by  Thomas  Stanley,  Esq.  (published  in 
1651),  is  the  following  stanza : 

Yet  strew 

Upon  my  dismall  grave 
Such  offerings  as  you  have, 

Forsaken  cypresse  and  sad  yewe ; 
For  kinder  flowers  can  take  no  birth 
Or  grow  from  such  unhappy  earth. 

In  "The  Maid's  Tragedy,"  a  pathetic  little  air  is  introduced, 
illustrative  of  this  mode  of  decorating  the  funerals  of  females  who 
had  been  disappointed  in  love  : 

Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse, 

Of  the  dismall  yew, 
Maidens,  willow  branches  wear 

Say  I  died  true. 

My  love  was  false,  but  I  was  firm 

From  my  hour  of  birth, 
Upon  my  buried  body  lie 

Lightly,  gentle  earth. 

The  natural  effect  of  sorrow  over  the  dead  is  to  refine  and  elevate 
the  mind  ;  and  we  have  the  proof  of  it  in  the  purity  of  sentiment 
and  the  unaffected  elegance  of  thought  which  pervaded  the  whole 
of  these  funeral  observances.  Thus,  it  was  an  especial  precaution 
that  none  but  sweet-scented  evergreens  and  flowers  should  be 


114  THE  SKETCH-BOGK. 

employed.  The  intention  seems  to  have  been  to  soften  the  horrors 
of  the  tomb,  to  beguile  the  mind  from  brooding  over  the  L^sgraces 
of  perishing  mortality,  and  to  associate  the  memory  of  the  deceased 
Y  with  the  most  delicate  and  beautiful  objects  in  nature.  There  is  a 
dismal  process  going  on  in  the  grave,  ere  dust  can  return  to  its  kin 
dred  dust,  which  the  imagination  shrinks  from  contemplating  ;  and 
we  seek  still  to  think  of  the  form  we  have  loved,  with  those  refined 
associations  which  it  awakened  when  blooming  before  us  in 
youth  and  beauty.  "Lay  her  i'  the  earth,"  says  Laertes,  of  his 
virgin  sister, 

And  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh 
May  violets  spring ! 

Herrick,  also,  in  his  "  Dirge  of  Jephtha,"  pours  forth  a  fragrant 
flow  of  poetical  thought  and  image,  which  in  a  manner  embalms 
tne  dead  m  the  recollections  of  the  living; 

Sleep  in  thy  peace,  thy  bed  of  spice, 

And  make  this  place  all  Paradise : 

May  sweets  grow  here !  and  smoke  from  hence 

Fat  frankincense. 

Let  balme  and  cassia  send  their  scent 
From  out  thy  maiden  monument. 
*        *        #        *        *        * 

May  all  shie  maids  at  wonted  hours 

Come  forth  to  strew  thy  tombe  with  flowers ! 

May  virgins,  when  they  come  to  mourn, 

Male  incense  burn 
Upon  thine  altar !  then  return 
And  leave  thee  sleeping  in  thine  urn. 

I  might  crowd  my  pages  with  extracts  from  the  older  British 
poets  who  wrote  when  these  rites  were  more  prevalent,  and 
delighted  frequently  to  allude  to  them ;  but  I  have  already  quoted 
more  than  is  necessary.  I  cannot,  however,  refrain  from  giving  a 
passage  from  Shakspeare,  even  though  it  should  appear  trite ; 
.vhich  illustrates  the  emblematical  meaning  often  conveyed  in  these 
floral  tributes;  and  at  the  same  time  possesses  that  magic  of 
language  and  appositeness  of  imagery  for  which  he  stands  pre 
eminent. 

With  fairest  flowers, 

Whilst  summer  lasts,  and  I  live  here,  Fidele, 
I'll  sweeten  thy  sad  grave  ;   thou  shalt  not  lack 
The  flower  that's  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose ;  nor 
The  azured  harebell,  like  thy  veins  ;  no,  nor 
The  leaf  of  eglantine;  whom  not  to  slander, 
Outsweeten'd  not  thy  breath. 

There  is  certainly  something  more  affecting  in  these  prompt  and 


RURAL  FUNERALS.  iff 

spontaneous  offerings  of  nature,  than  in  the  most  costly  monuments 
of  art ;  the  hand  strews  the  flower  while  the  heart  is  warm,  and  the 
tear  falls  on  the  grave  as  affection  is  binding  the  osier  round  the 
sod  ;  but  pathos  expires  under  the  slow  labor  of  the  chisel,  and  is 
chilled  among  the  cold  conceits  of  sculptured  marble. 

It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted,  that  a  custom  so  truly  elegant  and 
touching  has  disappeared  from  general  use,  and  exists  only  in  the 
most  remote  and  insignificant  villages.  But  it  seems  as  if  poetical 
custom  always  shuns  the  walks  of  cultivated  society.  In  proportion 
as  people  grow  polite  they  cease  to  be  poetical.  They  talk  of 
poetry,  but  they  have  learnt  to  check  its  free  impulses,  to  distrust 
its  sallying  emotions,  and  to  supply  its  most  affecting  and  pictur 
esque  usages,  by  studied  form  and  pompous  ceremonial.  Few 
pageants  can  be  more  stately  and  frigid  than  an  English  funeral  in 
town.  It  is  made  up  of  show  and  gloomy  parade  ;  mourning  car 
riages,  mourning  horses,  mourning  plumes,  and  hireling  mourners, 
who  make  a  mockery  of  grief.  "  There  is  a  grave  digged,"  says 
Jeremy  Taylor,  "  and  a  solemn  mourning,  and  a  great  talk  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  when  the  daies  are  finished,  they  shall  be,  and 
they  shall  be  remembered  no  more."  The  associate  in  the  gay 
and  crowded  city  is  soon  forgotten ;  the  hurrying  succession  of  new 
intimates  and  new  pleasures  effaces  him  from  our  minds,  and  the 
very  scenes  and  circles  in  which  he  moved  are  incessantly  fluctu 
ating.  But  funerals  in  the  country  are  solemnly  impressive.  The 
stroke  of  death  makes  a  wider  space  in  the  village  circle,  and  is  an 
awful  event  in  the  tranquil  uniformity  of  rural  life.  The  passing 
bell  tolls  its  knell  in  every  ear ;  it  steals  with  its  pervading  melanr 
choly  over  hill  and  vale,  and  saddens  all  the  landscape. 

The  fixed  and  unchanging  features  of  the  country  also  perpetuate 
the  memory  of  the  friend  with  whom  we  once  enjoyed  them ;  who 
was  the  companion  of  our  most  retired  walks,  and  gave  animation 
to  every  lonely  scene.  His_idea  is  associated  with  every  charm  of 
nature  ;  we  hear  his  voice  in  the  echo  which  he  once  delighted  to 
awaken  ;  his  spirit  haunts  the  grove  which  he  once  frequented  ;  we 
think  of  him  in  the  wild  upland  solitude,  or  amidst  the  pensive 
beauty  of  the  valley.  In  the  freshness  of  joyous  morning,  we 
remember  his  beaming  smiles  and  bounding  gayety;  and  when 
sober  evening  returns  with  its  gathering  shadows  and  subduing 
quiet,  we  call  to  mind  many  a  twilight  hour  of  gentle  talk  and 
sweet-souled  melancholy. 

Each  lonely  place  shall  him  restore, 

For  him  the  tear  be  duly  shed ; 
Beloved,  till  life  can  charm  no  more  ; 

And  mourn'd  till  pity's  self  be  dead. 


16  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Another  cause  that  perpetuates  the  memory  of  the  deceased  in 
the  country  is  that  the  grave  is  more  immediately  in  sight  of  the 
survivors.  They  pass  it  on  their  way  to  prayer,  it  meets  their  eyes 
when  their  hearts  are  softened  by  the  exercises  of  devotion  :  they 
linger  about  it  on  the  Sabbath,  when  the  mind  is  disengaged  from 
worldly  cares,  and  most  disposed  to  turn  aside  from  present  pleas 
ures  and  present  loves,  and  to  sit  down  among  the  solemn  memen 
tos  of  the  past.  In  North  Wales  the  peasantry  kneel  and  pray 
over  the  graves  of  their  deceased  friends,  for  several  Sundays  after 
the  interment ;  and  where  the  tender  rite  of  strewing  and  planting 
flowers  is  still  practised,  it  is  always  renewed  on  Easter,  Whitsun 
tide,  and  other  festivals,  when  the  season  brings  the  companion  of 
former  festivity  more  vividly  to  mind.  It  is  also  invariably  per 
formed  by  the  nearest  relatives  and  friends  ;  no  menials  nor  hire 
lings  are  employed ;  and  if  a  neighbor  yields  assistance,  it  would 
be  deemed  an  insult  to  offer  compensation. 

I  have  dwelt  upon  this  beautiful  rural  custom,  because,  as  it  is 
one  of  the  last,  so  is  it  one  of  the  holiest  offices  of  love.  The  grave 
is  the  ordeal  of  true  affection.  It  is  there  that  the  divine  passion 
of  the  soul  manifests  its  superiority  to  the  instinctive  impulse  of 
mere  animal  attachment.  The  latter  must  be  continually  refreshed 
and  kept  alive  by  the  presence  of  its  object ;  but  the  love  that  is 
seated  in  the  soul  can  live  on  long  remembrance.  The  mere  incli 
nations  of  sense  languish  and  decline  with  the  charms  which 
excited  them,  and  turn  with  shuddering  disgust  from  the  dismal 
precincts  of  the  tomb  ;  but  it  is  thence  that  truly  spiritual  affection 
rises,  purified  from  every  sensual  desire,  and  returns,  like  a  holy 
Jame,  to  illumine  and  sanctify  the  heart  of  the  survivor. 

The  sorrow  for  the  dead  is  the  only  sorrow  from  which  we  refuse 
to  be  divorced.  Every  other  wound  we  seek  to  heal — every  other 
affliction  to  forget ;  but  this  wound  we  consider  it  a  duty  to  keep 
open — this  affliction  we  cherish  and  brood  over  in  solitude.  Where 
is  the  mother  who  would  willingly  forget  the  infant  that  perished 
like  a  blossom  from  her  arms,  though  every  recollection  is  a  pang  ? 
Where  is  the  child  that  would  willingly  forget  the  most  tender  of 
parents,  though  to  remember  be  but  to  lament?  'Who,  even  in  the 
hour  of  agony,  would  forget  the  friend  over  whom  he  mourns  ? 
Who,  even  when  the  tomb  is  closing  upon  the  remains  of  her  he 
most  loved ;  when  he  feels  his  heart,  as  it  were,  crushed  in  the 
closing  of  its  portal ;  would  accept  of  consolation  that  must  be 
bought  by  forgetfulness  ? — No,  the  love  which  survives  the  tomb  is 
.one  of  the  noblest  attributes  of  the  soul.  If  it  has  its  woes,  it  has 
likewise  its  delights ;  and  when  the  overwhelming  burst  of  grief  if 


R  URAL  FUNERALS.  I  If 

calmed  Into  the  gentle  tear  of  recollection;  when  the  sudden 
anguish  and  the  convulsive  agony  over  the  present  ruins  of  all  that 
we  most  loved,  is  softened  away  into  pensive  meditation  on  all  that 
it  was  in  the  days  of  its  loveliness — who  would  root  out  such  a  sor 
row  from  the  heart  ?  Though  it  may  sometimes  throw  a  passing 
cloud  over  the  bright  hour  of  gayety,  or  spread  a  deeper  sadness 
over  the  hour  of  gloom,  yet  who  would  exchange  it  even  for  the 
song  of  pleasure,  or  the  burst  of  revelry  ?  No,  there  is  a  voice  from 
the  tomb  sweeter  than  song.  There  is  a  remembrance  of  the  dead 
to  which  we  turn  even  from  the  charms  of  the  living.  Oh,  the 
grave  ! — the  grave  ! — It  buries  every  error — covers  every  defect — 
extinguishes  every  resentment !  From  its  peaceful  bosom  spring 
none  but  fond  regrets  and  tender  recollections.  Who  can  look 
down  upon  the  grave  even  of  an  enemy,  and  not  feel  a  compunc 
tious  throb,  that  he  should  ever  have  warred  with  the  poor  handful 
of  earth  that  lies  mouldering  before  him. 

But  the  grave  of  those  we  loved — what  a  place  for  meditation ! 
There  it  is  that  we  call  up  in  long  review  the  whole  history  of  virtue 
and  gentleness,  and  the  thousand  endearments  lavished  upon  us 
almost  unheeded  in  the  daily  intercourse  of  intimacy — there  it  is 
that  we  dwell  uporj.  ,the  tenderness,  the  solemn,  awful  tenderness 
of  the  parting  scene.  \The  bed  of  death,  with  all  its  stifled  griefs — 
its  noiseless  attendance — its  mute,  watchful  assiduities.  The  last 
testimonies  of  expiring  love!  The  feeble,  fluttering,  thrilling — oh! 
how  thrilling! — pressure  of  the  hand!  The  faint,  faltering  accents, 
struggling  in  death  to  give  one  more  assurance  of  affection !  The 
last  fond  look  of  the  glazing  eye,  turned  upon  us  even  from  the 
threshold  of  existence ! 

Ay,  go  to  the  grave  of  buried  love,  and  meditate !  There  settle 
the  account  with  thy  conscience  for  every  past  benefit  unrequited — 
every  past  endearment  unregarded,  of  that  departed  being,  who 
can  never — never — never  return  to  be  soothed  by  thy  contrition ! 

If  thou  art  a  child,  and  hast  ever  added  a  sorrow  to  the  soul,  or 
a  furrow  to  the  silvered  brow  of  an  affectionate  parent — if  thou  art 
a  husband,  and  hast  ever  caused  the  fond  bosom  that  ventured  its 
whole  happiness  in  thy  arms  to  doubt  one  moment  of  thy  kindness 
or  thy  truth — if  thou  art  a  friend,  and  hast  ever  wronged,  in  thought, 
or  word,  or  deed,  the  spirit  that  generously  confided  in  thee — if 
thou  art  a  lover,  and  hast  ever  given  one  unmerited  pang  to  that 
true  heart  which  now  lies  cold  and  still  beneath  thy  feet ; — then  be 
sure  that  every  unkind  look,  every  ungracious  word,  every  ungentle 
action,  will  come  thronging  back  upon  thy  memory,  and  knocking 
dolefully  at  thy  soul — then  be  sure  that  thou  wilt  lie  down  sorrow- 


Ii8  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ing  and  repentant  on  the  grave,  and  utter  the  unheard  ginas,  and 
pour  the  unavailing  tear ;  more  deep,  more  bitter,  because  unbear-d 
and  unavailing. 

Then  weave  thy  chaplet  of  flowers,  and  strew  the  beauties  oi 
nature  about  the  grave ;  console  thy  broken  spirit,  if  thou  canst, 
with  these  tender,  yet  futile  tributes  of  regret ;  but  take  warning  by 
the  bitterness  of  this  thy  contrite  affliction  over  the  dead,  and 
henceforth  be  more  faithful  and  affectionate  in  the  discharge  of  thy 
duties  to  the  living. 


In  writing  the  preceding  article,  it  was-  not  intended  to  give  a  full 
detail  of  the  funeral  customs  of  the  English  peasantry,  but  merely 
to  furnish  a  few  hints  and  quotations  illustrative  of  particular  rites, 
,o  be  appended,  by  way  of  note,  to  another  paper,  which  has  been 
withheld.  The  article  swelled  insensibly  Jnto  its  present  form,  and 
this  is  mentioned  as  an  apology  for  so  brief  and  casual  a  notice  of 
these  usages,  after  they  have  been  amply  and  learnedly  investi 
gated  in  other  works. 

I  must  observe,  also,  that  I  am  well  aware  that  this  custom  of 
adorning  graves  with  flowers  prevails  in  other  countries  besides 
England.  Indeed,  in  some  it  is  much  more  general,  and  is  observed 
even  by  the  rich  and  fashionable ;  but  it  is  then  apt  to  lose  its  sim 
plicity,  and  to  degenerate  into^affectation.  Bright,  in  his  travels  in 
Lower  Hungary,  tells*  of  monuments  of  marble,  and  recesses 
formed  for  retirement,  with  seats  placed  among  bowers  of  green 
house  plants  ;  and  that  the'  graves  generally  are  covered  with  the 
gayest  flowers  of  the  season.  He  gives  a  casual  picture  of  filial 
piety,  which  I  cannot  but  transcribe  ;  for  I  trust  it  is  as  useful  as  it 
?s  delightful,  to  illustrate  the  amiable  virtues  of  the  sex.  "  When 
i  was  at  Berlin,"  says  he,  "  I  followed  the  celebrated  Iffland'to  the 
grave.  Mingled  with  some  pomp,  you  might  trace  much  real  feel 
ing.  In  the  midst  of  the  ceremony,  my  attention  was  attracted  by 
a  young  woman,  who  stood  on  a  mound  of  earth,  newly  covered 
with  turf,  which  she  anxiously  protected  from  the  feet  of  the  pass 
ing  crowd.  It  was  the  tomb  of  her  parent ;  and  the  figure  of  tins 
affectionate  daughter  presented  a  monument  more  striking  than 
the  most  costly  work  of  art." 

I  will  barely  add  an  instance  of  sepulchral  decoration  that  I  once 
met  with  among  the  mountains  of  Switzerland.  It  was  at  the 
village  of  Gersau,  which  stands  on  the  borders  of  the  Lake  of 
lucerne,  at  the  foot  oj  Mount  Rigi.  It  was  once  the  capital  of  a 
e  republic,  shut  up  between  the  Alps  and  the  Lake,  and 


TffE  7JWV  KITCHEfo  r  t$ 

Accessible  on  the  land  side  only  by  foot-paths.  The  whole  force  oi 
the  republic  did  not  exceed  six  hundred  fighting  men ;  and  a  few 
miles  of  circumference,  scooped  out  as  it  were  from  the  bosom  of 
the  mountains,  comprised  its  territory.  The  village  of  Gersau 
seemed  separated  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  retained  the 
golden  simplicity  of  a  purer  age.  It  had  a  small  church,  with  a 
burying-ground  adjoining.  At  the  heads  of  the  graves  were  placed 
crosses  of  wood  or  iron.  On  some  were  affixed  miniatures,  rudely 
executed,  but  evidently  attempts  at  likenesses  of  the  deceased.  On 
the  crosses  were  hung  chaplets  of  flowers,  some  withering,  others 
fresh,  as  if  occasionally  renewed.  I  paused  with  interest  at  this 
scene ;  I  felt  that  I  was  at  the  source  of  poetical  description,  for 
these  were  the  beautiful  but  unaffected  offerings  of  the  heart  which 
poets  are  fain  to  record.  In  a  gayer  and  more  populous  place,  I 
should  have  suspected  them  to  have  been  suggested  by  factitious 
sentiment,  derived  from  books;  but  the  good  people  of  Gersau 
knew  little  of  books ;  there  was  not  a  novel  nor  a  love  poem  in  the 
village ;  and  I  question  whether  any  peasant  of  the  place  dreamt, 
while  he  was  twining  a  fresh  chaplet  for  the  grave  of  his  mistress, 
that  he  was  fulfilling  one  of  the  most  fanciful  rites  of  poetical  devo 
tion,  and  that  he  was  practically  a  poet 


THE  INN  KITCHEN. 

Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn?— FALSTAFP. 

DURING  a  journey  that  I  once  made  through  the  Netherlands, 
I  had  arrived  one  evening  at  the  Pomme  d'  Or,  the  principal 
inn  of  a  small  Flemish  village.  It  was  after  the  hour  of  the 
table  d1  hote  so  that  I  was  obliged  to  make  a  solitary  supper  from 
the  relics  of  its  ampler  board.  The  weather  was  chilly;  I  was 
seated  alone  in  one  end  of  a  great,  gloomy  dining-room, .and,  my 
repast  being  over,  I  had  the  prospect  before  me  of  a  long,  dull 
evening,  without  any  visible  means  of  enlivening  it.  I  summoned 
mine  host,  and  requested  something  to  read ;  he  brought  me  the 
whole  literary  stock  of  his  household,  a  Dutch  family  Bible,  an 
almanac  in  the  same  language,  and  a  number  of  old  Paris  newspapers. 
As  I  sat  dozing  over  one  of  the  latter,  reading  old  and  stale  criti 
cisms,  my  ear  was  now  and  then  struck  with  bursts  of  laughter  which 
seemed  to  proceed  from  the  kitchen.  Everyone  that  has  travelled 
on  the  continent  must  know  how  favorite  a  resort  the  kitchen  of  a 


120  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

country  inn  is  to  the  middle  and  inferior  order  of  travellers ;  particu* 
larly  in  that  equivocal  kind  of  weather,  when  a  fire  becomes  agree 
able  toward  evening.  I  threw  aside  the  newspaper,  and  explored 
my  way  to  the  kitchen,  to  take  a  peep  at  the  group  that  appeared 
to  be  so  merry.  It  was  composed  partly  of  travellers  who  had 
arrived  some  hours  before  in  a  diligence,  and  partly  of  the  usual 
attendants  and  hangers-on  of  inns.  They  were  seated  round  a 
great,  burnished  stove,  that  might  have  been  mistaken  for  an  altar 
at  which  they  were  worshipping.  It  was  covered  with  various 
kitchen  vessels  of  resplendent  brightness ;  among  which  steamed 
and  hissed  a  huge,  copper  tea-kettle.  A  large  lamp  threw  a  strong 
mass  of  light  upon  the  group,  bringing  out  many  odd  features  in 
strong  relief.  Its  yellow  rays  partially  illumined  the  spacious 
kitchen,  dying  duskily  away  into  remote  corners ;  except  where 
they  settled  in  mellow  radiance  on  the  broad  side  of  a  flitch  of 
bacon,  or  were  reflected  back  from  well-scoured  utensils,  that 
gleamed  from  the  midst  of  obscurity.  A  strapping  Flemish  lass, 
with  long,  golden  pendants  in  her  ears,  and  a  necklace  with  a  golden 
heart  suspended  to  it,  was  the  presiding  priestess  of  the  temple. 

Many  of  the  company  were  furnished  with  pipes,  and  most  of 
them  with  some  kind  of  evening  potation.  I  found  their  mirth  was 
occasioned  by  anecdotes,  which  a  little  swarthy  Frenchman,  with 
a  dry,  weazen  face  and  large  whiskers,  was  giving  of  his  love 
adventures;  at  the  end  of  each  of  which  there  was  one  of  those 
bursts  of  honest,  unceremonious  laughter  in  which  a  man  indulges 
in  that  temple  of  true  liberty,  an  inn. 

As  I  had  no  better  mode  of  getting  through  a  tedious,  blustering 
evening,  I  took  my  seat  near  the  stove,  and  listened  to  a  variety 
of  traveller's  tales,  some  very  extravagant,  and  most  very  dull. 
All  of  them,  however,  have  faded  from  my  treacherous  memory 
except  one,  which  I  will  endeavor  to  relate.  I  fear,  however,  it 
derived  its  chief  zest  from  the  manner  in  which  it  was  told,  and  the 
peculiar  air  and  appearance  of  the  narrator.  He  was  a  corpulent 
old  Swiss,  who  had  the  look  of  a  veteran  traveller.  He  was  dressed 
in  a  tarnished  green  travelling-jacket,  with  a  broad  belt  round  his 
waist,  and  a  pair  of  overalls,  with  buttons  from  the  hips  to  the 
ankles.  He  was  of  a  full,  rubicund  countenance,  with  a  double 
chin,  aqualine  nose,  and  a  pleasant,  twinkling  eye.  His  hair  was 
light,  and  curled  from  under  an  old  green  velvet  travelling-cap 
stuck  on  one  side  of  his  head.  He  was  interrupted  more  than  once 
by  the  arrival  of  guests,  or  the  remarks  of  his  auditors;  and 
paused  now  and  then  to  replenish  his  pipe;  at  which  times  he  had 
generally  a  roguish  leer  and  a  sly  joke  for  the  buxom  kitchen- 
maid. 


THE  SEPCTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  l$l 

I  wish  that  my  readers  could  imagine  the  ojd  fellow  lolling  in  a 
huge  arm-chair,  one  arm  akimbo,  the  other  holding  a  curiously 
twisted  tobacco  pipe,  formed  of  genuine  tcume  de  mer,  decorated 
with  silver  chain  and  silken  tassel — his  head  cocked  on  one  side, 
and  a  whimsical  cut  of  the  eye  occasionally,  as  he  related  the  fol 
lowing  story. 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM. 

A  TRAVELLER'S  TALE.* 

He  that  supper  for  Is  dlght, 

He  lyes  full  cold,  I  trow,  this  night! 

Yestreen  to  chamber  I  him  led, 

This  night  Gray-Steel  has  made  his  bed. 

SIR  EGER,  SIR  GRAHAME,  AND  Six  GRIT-STEEL. 

ON  the  summit  of  one  of  the  heights  of  the  Odenwald,  a  wild 
and  romantic  tract  of  Upper  Germany,  that  lies  not  far  from 
the  confluence  of  the  Main  and  the  Rhine,  there  stood,  many, 
many  years  since,  the  Castle  of  the  Baron  Von  Landshort.  It  ii 
now  quite  fallen  to  decay,  and  almost  buried  among  beech-trees 
and  dark  firs;  above  which,  however,  its  old  watch-tower  may  still 
be  seen,  struggling,  like  the  former  possessor  I  have  mentioned,  to 
carry  a  high  head,  and  look  down  upon  the  neighboring  country. 

The  baron  was  a  dry  branch  of  the  great  family  of  Katzenellen- 
bogen,f  and  inherited  the  relics  of  the  property,  and  all  the  pride 
of  his  ancestors.  Though  the  warlike  disposition  of  his  predeces 
sors  had  much  impaired  the  family  possessions,  yet  the  baron  still 
endeavored  to  keep  up  some  show  of  former  state.  The  times  were 
peaceable,  and  the  German  nobles,  in  general,  had  abandoned 
their  inconvenient  old  castles,  perched  like  eagles'  nests  among  the 
mountains,  and  had  built  more  convenient  residences  in  the  valleys: 
still  the  baron  remained  proudly  drawn  up  in  his  little  fortress,  cher 
ishing,  with  hereditary  inveteracy,  all  the  old  family  feuds;  so  that  he 
was  on  ill  terms  with  some  of  his  nearest  neighbors,  on  account  of  dis 
putes  that  had  happened  between  their  great-great-grandfathers. 

The  baron  had  but  one  child,  a  daughter ;  but  nature,  when  she 

*  The  erudite  reader,  well  versed  in  good-for-nothing  lore,  will  perceive'that 
the  above  Tale  must  have  been  suggested  to  the  old  Swiss  by  a  little  French 
anecdote,  a  circumstance  said  to  have  taken  place  at  Paris. 

t  i.  e.,  CAT'S- ELBOW.  The  name  of  a  family  of  those  parts  very  powerful  in 
former  times.  The  appellation,  we  are  told,  was  given  in  compliment  to  a 
peerless  dame  of  the  family,  celebrated  for  her  fine  arm. 


IS2  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

grants  but  one  child,  always  compensates  by  making  it  a  prodigy , 
and  so  it  was  with  the  daughter  of  the  baron.  All  the  nurse*,  gossips, 
and  country  cousins,  assured  her  father  that  she  had  not  her  equal 
for  beauty  in  all  Germany ;  and  who  should  know  better  than 
they  ?  She  had,  moreover,  been  brought  up  with  great  care  under 
the  superintendence  of  two  maiden  aunts,  who  had  spent  some 
years  of  their  early  life  at  one  of  the  little  German  courts,  and  were 
skilled  in  all  the  branches  of  knowledge  necessary  to  the  education 
of  a  fine  lady.  Under  their  instructions  she  became  a  miracle  of 
accomplishments.  By  the  time  she  was  eighteen,  she  could 
embroider  to  admiration,  and  had  worked  whole  histories  of  the 
saints  in  tapestry,  with  such  strength  of  expression  in  their  counte 
nances,  that  they  looked  like  so  many  souls  in  purgatory.  She 
could  read  without  great  difficulty,  and  had  spelled  her  way  through 
several  church  legends,  and  almost  all  the  chivalric  wonders  of  the 
Heldenbuch.  She  had  even  made  considerable  proficiency  in  writ 
ing  ;  could  sign  her  own  name  without  missing  a  letter,  and  so 
legibly,  that  her  aunts  could  read  it  without  spectacles.  She 
excelled  in  making  little  elegant,  good-for-nothing,  lady-like  nick- 
nacks  of  all  kinds  ;  was  versed  in  the  most  abstruse  dancing  of  the 
day  ;  played  a  number  of  airs  on  the  harp  and  guitar ;  and  knew 
all  the  tender  ballads  of  the  Minnie-lieders  by  heart. 

Her  aunts,  too,  having  been  great  flirts  and  coquettes  in  their 
younger  days,  were  admirably  calculated  to  be  vigilant  guardians 
and  strict  censors  of  the  conduct  of  their  niece ;  for  there  is  no 
duenna  so  rigidly  prudent,  and  inexorably  decorous,  as  a  superan 
nuated  coquette.  She  was  rarely  suffered  out  of  their  sight ;  never 
went  beyond  the  domains  of  the  castle,  unless  well  attended,  or 
rather  well  watched  ;  had  continual  lectures  read  to  her  about  strict 
decorum  and  implicit  obedience;  and,  as  to  the  men — pah! — she 
was  taught  to  hold  them  at  such  a  distance,  and  in  such  absolute 
distrust,  that,  unless  properly  authorized,  she  would  not  have  cast 
a  glance  upon  the  handsomest  cavalier  in  the  world — no,  not  if  he 
were  even  dying  at  her  feet. 

The  good  effects  of  this  system  were  wonderfully  apparent.  The 
young  lady  was  a  pattern  of  docility  and  correctness.  While  others 
were  wasting  their  sweetness  in  the  glare  of  the  world,  and  liable 
to  be  plucked  and  thrown  aside  by  every  hand,  she  was  coyly 
blooming  into  fresh  and  lovely  womanhood  under  the  protection 
of  those  immaculate  spinsters,  like  a  rose-bud  blushing  forth  among 
guardian  thorns.  Her  aunts  looked  upon  her  with  pride  and  exul 
tation,  and  vaunted  that  though  all  the  other  young  ladies  in  the 
world  might  go  astray,  yet,  thank  Heaven,  nothing  of  the  kind 
could  happen  to  the  heiress  of  Katzenellenbogen. 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  V$ 

But,  however  scantily  the  Baron  Von  Landshort  might  be  pro 
vided  with  children,  his  household  was  by  no  means  a  small  one  ; 
for  Providence  had  enriched  him  with  abundance  of  poor  relations. 
They,  one  and  all,  possessed  the  affectionate  disposition  common 
to  humble  relatives ;  were  wonderfully  attached  to  the  baron,  and 
took  every  possible  occasion  to  come  in  swarms  and  enliven  the 
castle.  All  family  festivals  were  commemorated  by  these  good 
people  at  the  baron's  expense;  and  when  they  were  filled  with 
good  cheer,  they  would  declare  that  there  was  nothing  on  earth  so 
delightful  as  those  family  meetings,  these  jubilees  of  the  heart. 

The  baron,  though  a  small  man,  had  a  large  soul,  and  it  swelled 
with  satisfaction  at  the  consciousness  of  being  the  greatest  man  in 
the  little  world  about  him.  He  loved  to  tell  long  stories  about  the 
dark  old  warriors  whose  portraits  looked  grimly  down  from  the 
walls  around,  and  he  found  no  listeners  equal  to  those  who  fed  at 
his  expense.  He  was  much  given  to  the  marvellous,  and  a  firm 
believer  in  all  those  supernatural  tales  with  which  every  mountain 
and  valley  in  Germany  abounds.  The  faith  of  his  guests  exceeded 
even  his  own :  they  listened  to  every  tale  of  wonder  with  open  eyes 
and  mouth,  and  never  failed  to  be  astonished,  even  though  repeated 
for  the  hundredth  time.  Thus  lived  the  Baron  Von  Landshort,  the 
oracle  of  his  table,  the  absolute  monarch  of  his  little  territory,  and 
happy,  above  all  things,  in  the  persuasion  that  he  was  the  wisest 
man  of  the  age. 

At  the  time  of  which  my  story  treats,  there  was  a  great  family 
gathering  at  the  castle,  on  an  affair  of  the  utmost  importance :  it 
was  to  receive  the  destined  bridegroom  of  the  baron's  daughter. 
A  negotiation  had  been  carried  on  between  the  father  and  an  old 
nobleman  of  Bavaria,  to  unite  the  dignity  of  their  houses  by  the 
marriage  of  their  children.  The  preliminaries  had  been  conducted 
with  proper  punctilio.  The  young  people  were  betrothed  without 
seeing  each  other ;  and  the  time  was  appointed  for  the  marriage 
ceremony.  The  young  Count  Von  Altenburg  had  been  recalled 
from  the  army  for  the  purpose,  and  was  actually  on  his  way  to  the 
baron's  to  receive  his  bride.  Missives  had  even  been  received 
from  him,  from  Wurtzburg,  where  he  was  accidentally  detained, 
mentioning  the  day  and  hour  when  he  might  be  expected  to  arrive. 

The  castle  was  in  a  tumult  of  preparation  to  give  him  a  suitable 
welcome.  The  fair  bride  had  been  decked  out  with  uncommon 
care.  The  two  aunts  had  superintended  her  toilet,  and  quarre41ed 
the  whole  morning  about  every  article  of  her  dress.  The  young 
lady  had  taken  advantage  of  their  contest  to  follow  the  bent  of  her 
own  taste;  and  fortunately  it  was  a  good  one.  She  locked  as 


SKETCH-BOOK. 

lovely  as  youthful  bridegroom  could  desire  ;   and  the  flutter  of 
expectation  heightened  the  lustre  of  her  charms. 

The  suffusions  that  mantled  her  face  and  neck,  the  gentle  heav 
ing  of  the  bosom,  the  eye  now  and  then  lost  in  reverie,  all  betrayed 
the  soft  tumult  that  was  going  on  in  her  little  heart.  The  aunts 
were  continually  hovering  around  her ;  for  maiden  aunts  are  apt  to 
take  great  interest  in  affairs  of  this  nature.  They  were  giving  her 
a  world  of  staid  counsel  how  to  deport  herself,  what  to  say,  and  in 
what  manner  to  receive  the  expected  lover. 

The  baron  was  no  less  busied  in  preparations.  He  had,  in  truth, 
nothing  exactly  to  do :  but  he  was  naturally  a  fuming,  bustling  little 
man,  and  could  not  remain  passive  when  all  the  world  was  in  a 
hurry.  He  worried  from  top  to  bottom  of  the  castle  with  an  air  of 
infinite  anxiety  ;  he  continually  called  the  servants  from  their  work 
to  exhort  them  to  be  diligent ;  and  buzzed  about  every  hall  and 
chamber,  as  idly  restless  and  importunate  as  a  blue-bottle  fly  on  a 
warm  summer's  day. 

In  the  mean  time  the  fatted  calf  had  been  killed ;  the  forests 
had  rung  with  the  clamor  of  the  huntsmen  ;  the  kitchen  was 
crowded  with  good  cheer;  the  cellars  had  yielded  up  whole  oceans 
of  Rhein-wein  and  Feme-wein;  and  even  the  great  Heidelburg  tun 
had  been  laid  under  contribution.  Everything  was  ready  to  receive 
the  distinguished  guest  with  Saus  und  Braus  in  the  true  spirit  of 
German  hospitality — but  the  guest  delayed  to  make  his  appearance. 
Hour  rolled  after  hour.  The  sun,  that  had  poured  his  downward 
rays  upon  the  rich  forest  of  the  Odenwald,  now  just  gleamed  along 
the  summits  of  the  mountains.  The  baron  mounted  the  highest 
tower,  and  strained  his  eyes  in  hope  of  catching  a  distant  sight  of 
the  count  and  his  attendants.  Once  he  thought  he  beheld  them ; 
the  sound  of  horns  came  floating  from  the  valley,  prolonged  by 
the  mountain  echoes.  A  number  of  horsemen  were  seen  far  below, 
slowly  advancing  along  the  road ;  but  when  they  had  nearly 
reached  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  they  suddenly  struck  off  in  a 
different  direction.  The  last  ray  of  sunshine  departed — the  bats 
began  to  flit  by  in  the  twilight — the  road  grew  dimmer  and  dimmer 
to  the  view;  and  nothing  appeared  stirring  in  it  but  now  and  then 
a  peasant  lagging  homeward  from  his  labor. 

While  the  old  castle  of  Landshort  was  in  this  state  of  perplexity, 
a  very  interesting  scene  was  transacting  in  a  different  part  of  the 
Odenwald. 

The  young  Count  Von  Altenburg  was  tranquilly  pursuing  his 
route  in  that  sober,  jog-trot  way  in  which  a  man  travels  toward  mat 
rimony  when  his  friends  have  taken  all  the  trouble  and  uncertainty 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  1 25 

of  courtship  off  his  hands,  and  a  bride  is  waiting  for  him  as  cer 
tainly  as  a  dinner  at  the  end  of  his  journey.  He  had  encountered 
at  Wurtzburg,  a  youthful  companion  in  arms,  with  whom  he  had 
<jeen  some  service  on  the  frontiers  ;  Herman  Von  Starkenfaust,  one 
of  the  stoutest  hands  and  worthiest  hearts  of  German  chivalry, 
who  was  now  returning  from  the  army.  His  father's  castle  was 
not  far  distant  from  the  old  fortress  of  Landshort,  although  an 
hereditary  feud  rendered  the  families  hostile,  and  strangers  to  each 
other. 

In  the  warm-hearted  moment  of  recognition,  the  young  friends 
related  all  their  past  adventures  and  fortunes,  and  the  count  gave 
the  whole  history  of  his  intended  nuptials  with  a  young  lady  whom 
he  had  never  seen,  but  of  whose  charms  he  had  received  the  most 
enrapturing  descriptions. 

As  the  route  of  the  friends  lay  in  the  same  direction,  they  agreed 
to  perform  the  rest  of  their  journey  together  ;  and,  that  they  might 
do  it  the  more  leisurely,  set  off  from  Wurtzburg  at  an  early  hour, 
the  count  having  given  directions  for  his  retinue  to  follow  and  over 
take  him. 

They  beguiled  their  wayfaring  with  recollections  of  their  military 
scenes  and  adventures ;  but  the  count  was  apt  to  be  a  little  tedious, 
now  and  then,  about  the  reputed  charms  of  his  bride,  and  the 
felicity  that  awaited  him. 

In  this  way  they  had  entered  among  the  mountains  of  the  Oden- 
wald,  and  were  traversing  one  of  its  most  lonely  and  thickly-wooded 
passes.  It  is  well  known  that  the  forests  of  Germany  have  always 
been  as  much  infested  with  robbers  as  its  castles  by  spectres;  and, 
at  this  time,  the  former  were  particularly  numerous,  from  the 
hordes  of  disbanded  soldiers  wandering  about  the  country.  It 
will  not  appear  extraordinary,  therefore,  that  the  cavaliers  were 
attacked  by  a  gang  of  these  stragglers,  in  the  midst  of  the  forest. 
They  defended  themselves  with  bravery,  but  were  nearly  over 
powered,  when  the  count's  retinue  arrived  to  their  assistance.  At 
sight  of  them  the  robbers  fled,  but  not  until  the  count  had  received 
a  mortal  wound.  He  was  slowly  and  carefully  conveyed  back  to 
the  city  of  Wurtzburg,  and  a  friar  summoned  from  a  neighboring 
convent,  who  was  famous  for  his  skill  in  administering  to  both  soul 
and  body  ;  but  half  of  his  skill  was  superfluous  ;  the  moments  of 
the  unfortunate  count  were  numbered. 

With  his  dying  breath  he  entreated  his  friend  to  repair  instantly 
to  the  castle  of  Landshort,  and  explain  the  fatal  cause  of  his  not 
keeping  his  appointment  with  his  bride.  Though  not  the  most 
ardent  of  lovers,  he  was  one  of  the  most  punctilious  of  men,  an4 


126  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

appeared  earnestly  solicitous  that  his  mission  should  be  speedily 
and  courteously  executed.  "Unless  this  is  done,"  said  he-,  "I 
shall  not  sleep  quietly  in  my  grave !  "  He  repeated  these  last 
words  with  peculiar  solemnity.  A  request,  at  a  moment  so  impres 
sive,  admitted  no  hesitation.  Starkenfaust  endeavored  to  soothe 
him  to  calmness  ;  promised  faithfully  to  execute  his  wish,  and  gave 
him  his  hand  in  solemn  pledge.  The  dying  man  pressed  it  in 
acknowledgment,  but  soon  lapsed  into  delirium — raved  about  his 
bride — his  engagements — his  plighted  word  ;  ordered  his  horse, 
that  he  might  ride  to  the  castle  of  Landshort ;  and  expired  in  the 
fancied  act  of  vaulting  into  the  saddle. 

Starkenfaust  bestowed  a  sigh  and  a  soldier's  tear  on  the  untimely 
fate  of  his  comrade  ;  and  then  pondered  on  the  awkward  mission 
he  had  undertaken.  His  heart  was  heavy,  and  his  head  perplexed  ; 
for  he  was  to  present  himself  an  unbidden  guest  among  hostile 
people,  and  to  damp  their  festivity  with  tidings  fatal  to  their  hopes. 
Still  there  were  certain  whisperings  of  curiosity  in  his  bosom  to  see 
this  far-famed  beauty  of  Katzenellenbogen,  so  cautiously  shut  up 
from  the  world ;  for  he  was  a  passionate  admirer  of  the  sex,  and 
there  was  a  dash  of  eccentricity  and  enterprise  in  his  character 
that  made  him  fond  of  all  singular  adventure. 

Previous  to  his  departure  he  made  all  due  arrangements  with  the 
holy  fraternity  of  the  convent  for  the  funeral  solemnities  of  his 
friend,  who  was  to  be  btiried  in  the  cathedral  of  Wurtzburg,  near 
some  of  his  illustrious  relatives ;  and  the  mourning  retinue  of  the 
count  took  charge  of  his  remains. 

It  is  now  high  time  that  we  should  return  to  the  ancient  family 
of  Katzenellenbogen,  who  were  impatient  for  their  guest,  and  still 
more  for  their  dinner ;  and  to  the  worthy  little  baron,  whom  we  left 
airing  himself  on  the  watch-tower. 

Night  closed  in,  but  still  no  guest  arrived  The  baron  descended 
from  the  tower  in  despair.  The  banquet,  which  had  been  delayed 
from  hour  to  hour,  could  no  longer  be  postponed.  The  meats 
were  already  overdone;  the  cook  in  an  agony;  and  the  whole 
household  had  the  look  of  a  garrison  that  had  been  reduced  by 
famine.  The  baron  was  obliged  reluctantly  to  give  orders  for  the 
feast  without  the  presence  of  the  guest.  All  were  seated  at  table, 
and  just  on  the  point  of  commencing,  when  the  sound  of  a  horn 
from  without  the  gate  gave  notice  of  the  approach  of  a  stranger. 
Another  long  blast  rilled  the  old  courts  of  the  castle  with  its  echoes, 
and  was  answered  by  the  warder  from  the  walls.  The  baron 
hastened  to  receive  his  future  son-in-law. 

The  drawbridge  had  been  let  down,  and  the  stranger  was  befon? 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  127 

the  gate.  He  was  a  tall,  gallant  cavalier,  mounted  on  a  black 
steed.  His  countenance  was  pale,  but  he  had  a  beaming,  romantic 
eye,  and  an  air  of  stately  melancholy.  The  baron  was  a  little 
mortified  that  he  should  have  come  in  this  simple,  solitary  style. 
His  dignity  for  a  moment  was  ruffled,  and  he  felt  disposed  to  con 
sider  it  a  want  of  proper  respect  for  the  important  occasion,  and 
the  important  family  with  which  he  was  to  be  connected.  He 
pacified  himself,  however,  with  the  conclusion,  that  it  must  have 
been  youthful  impatience  which  had  induced  him  to  spur  on  sooner 
than  his  attendants. 

"I  am  sorry/'  said  the  stranger,  "to  break  in  upon  you  thus 
unseasonably " 

Here  the  baron  interrupted  him  with  a  world  of  compliments  and 
greetings ;  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  prided  himself  upon  his  courtesy 
and  eloquence.  The  stranger  attempted,  once  or  twice,  to  stem 
the  torrent  of  words,  but  in  vain,  so  he  bowed  his  head  and  suffered 
it  to  flow  on.  By  the  time  the  baron  had  come  to  a  pause, 
they  had  reached  the  inner  court  of  the  castle ;  and  the  stranger 
was  again  about  to  speak,  when  he  was  once  more  interrupted  by 
the  appearance  of  the  female  part  of  the  family,  leading  forth  the 
shrinking  and  blushing  bride.  He  gazed  on  her  for  a  moment  as 
one  entranced  ;  it  seemed  as  if  his  whole  soul  beamed  forth  in  the 
gaze,  and  rested  upon  that  lovely  form.  One  of  the  maiden  aunts 
whispered  something  in  her  ear  ;  she  made  an  effort  to  speak ;  her 
moist  blue  eye  was  timidly  raised ;  gave  a  shy  glance  of  inquiry 
on  the  stranger ;  and  was  cast  again  to  the  ground.  The  words 
died  away ;  but  there  was  a  sweet  smile  playing  about  her  lips,  and 
a  soft  dimpling  of  the  cheek  that  showed  her  glance  had  not 
been  unsatisfactory.  It  was  impossible  for  a  girl  of  the  fond  age  of 
eighteen,  highly  predisposed  for  love  and  matrimony,  not  to  be 
pleased  with  so  gallant  a  cavalier. 

The  late  hour  at  which  the  guest  had  arrived  left  no  time  for 
parley.  The  baron  was  peremptory,  and  deferred  all  particular 
conversation  until  the  morning,  and  led  the  way  to  the  untasted 
banquet. 

It  was  served  in  the  great  hall  of  the  castle.  Around  the  walls 
hung  the  hard-favored  portraits  of  the  heroes  of  the  house  of 
Katzenellenbogen,  and  the  trophies  which  they  had  gained  in  the 
field  and  in  the  chase.  Hacked  corslets,  splintered  jousting  spears, 
and  tattered  banners,  were  mingled  with  the  spoils  of  sylvan 
warfare  ;  the  jaws  of  the  wolf,  and  the  tusks  of  the  boar,  grinned 
horribly  among  cross-bows  and  battle-axes,  and  a  huge  pair  of 
antlers  branched  immediately  over  the  head  of  the  youthful  bride 
groom 


28  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

The  cavalier  took  but  little  notice  of  the  company  or  the  entertain 
ment.  He  scarcely  tasted  the  banquet,  but  seemed  absorbed  in 
admiration  of  his  bride.  He  conversed  in  a  low  tone  that  could 
not  be  overheard — for  the  language  of  love  is  never  loud ;  but 
where  is  the  female  ear  so  dull  that  it  cannot  catch  the  softest 
whisper  of  the  lover  ?  There  was  a  mingled  tenderness  and  gravity  in 
his  manner,  that  appeared  to  have  a  powerful  effect  upon  the  young 
lady.  Her  color  came  and  went  as  she  listened  with  deep  atten 
tion.  Now  and  then  she  made  some  blushing  reply,  and  when  his 
eye  was  turned  away,  she  would  steal  a  sidelong  glance  at  his 
romantic  countenance,  and  heave  a  gentle  sigh  of  tender  happiness. 
It  was  evident  that  the  young  couple  were  completely  enamored. 
The  aunts,  who  were  deeply  versed  in  the  mysteries  of  the  heart, 
declared  that  they  had  fallen  in  love  with  each  other  at  firtt 
•ight. 

The  feast  went  on  merrily,  or  at  least  noisily,  for  the  guests  were 
all  blessed  with  those  keen  appetites  that  attend  upon  light  purses 
and  mountain  air.  The  baron  told  his  best  and  longest  stories, 
and  never  had  he  told  them  so  well,  or  with  such  great  effect.  If 
there  was  anything  marvelous,  his  auditors  were  lost  in  astonish 
ment  ;  and  if  anything  facetious,  they  were  sure  to  laugh  exactly 
in  the  right  place.  The  baron,  it  is  true,  like  most  great  men,  was 
too  dignified  to  utter  any  joke  but  a  dull  one ;  it  was  always 
enforced,  however,  by  a  bumper  of  excellent  Hockheimer ;  and 
even  a  dull  joke,  at  one's  own  table,  served  up  with  jolly  old  wine, 
is  irresistible.  Many  good  things  were  said  by  poorer  and  keener 
wits,  that  would  not  bear  repeating,  except  on  similar  occasions  ; 
many  sly  speeches  whispered  in  ladies'  ears,  that  almost  convulsed 
them  with  suppressed  laughter ;  and  a  song  or  two  roared  out  by  a 
poor,  but  merry  and  broad-faced  cousin  of  the  baron,  that  abso 
lutely  made  the  maiden  aunts  hold  up  their  fans. 

Amidst  all  this  revelry,  the  stranger  guest  maintained  a  most 
singular  and  unseasonable  gravity.  His  countenance  assumed  a 
deeper  cast  of  dejection  as  the  evening  advanced ;  and,  strange  as 
it  may  appear,  even  the  .baron's  jokes  seemed  only  to  render  him 
the  more  melancholy.  At  times  he  was  lost  in  thought,  and  at 
times  there  was  a  perturbed  and  restless  wandering  of  the  eye  that 
bespoke  a  mind  but  ill  at  ease.  His  conversations  with  the  bride 
became  more  and  more  earnest  and  mysterious.  Lowering  clouds 
began  to  steal  over  the  fair  serenity  of  her  brow,  and  tremors  t* 
run  through  her  tender  frame. 

All  this  could  not  escape  the  notice  of  the  company.  Their 
gayety  was  chilled  by  the  unaccountable  gloom  of  the  bride- 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  129 

groom ;  their  spirits  were  infected ;  whispers  and  glances  were 
exchanged,  accompanied  by  shrugs  and  dubious  shakes  of  the  head. 
The  song  and  the  laugh  grew  less  and  less  frequent :  there  were 
dreary  pauses  in  the  conversation,  which  were  at  length  succeeded 
by  wild  tales  and  supernatural  legends.  One  dismal  story  produced 
another  still  more  dismal,  and  the  baron  nearly  frightened  some  of 
the  ladies  into  hysterics  with  the  history  of  the  goblin  horseman 
that  carried  away  the  fair  Leonora;  a  dreadful  story,  which  has 
since  been  put  into  excellent  verse,  and  is  read  and  believed  by  all 
the  world. 

The  bridegroom  listened  to  this  tale  with  profound  attention.  He 
kept  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  the  baron,  and,  as  the  story  drew  to 
a  close,  began  gradually  to  rise  from  his  seat,  growing  taller  and 
taller,  until,  in  the  baron's  entranced  eye,  he  seemed  almost  to 
tower  into  a  giant.  The  moment  the  tale  was  finished,  he  heaved 
a  deep  sigh,  and  took  a  solemn  farewell  of  the  company.  They 
were  all  amazement.  The  baron  was  perfectly  thunder-struck. 

"What !  going  to  leave  the  castle  at  midnight  ?  why,  everything 
was  prepared  for  his  reception  ;  a  chamber  was  ready  for  him  if  he 
wished  to  retire." 

The  stranger  shook  his  head  mournfully  and  mysteriously ;  "  I 
must  lay  my  head  in  a  different  chamber  to-night !  " 

There  was  something  in  this  reply,  and  the  tone  in  which  it  was 
uttered,  that  made  the  baron's  heart  misgive  him ;  but  he  rallied 
his  forces,  and  repeated  his  hospitable  entreaties. 

The  stranger  shook  his  head  silently,  but  positively,  at  every 
offer  ;  and,  waving  his  farewell  to  the  company,  stalked  slowly  out 
of  the  hall.  The  maiden  aunts  were  absolutely  petrified — the  bride 
hung  her  head,  and  a  tear  stole  to  her  eye. 

The  baron  followed  the  stranger  to  the  great  court  of  the  castle, 
where  the  black  charger  stood  pawing  the  earth,  and  snorting  with 
impatience. — When  they  had  reached  the  portal,  whose  deep  arch 
way  was  dimly  lighted  by  a  crosset,  the  stranger  paused,  and 
addressed  the  baron  in  a  hollow  tone  of  voice,  which  the  vaulted 
roof  rendered  still  more  sepulchral. 

"Now  that  we  are  alone,"  said  he,  "I  will  impart  to  you  the 
reason  of  my  going.  I  have  a  solemn,  an  indispensable  engage 
ment " 

"Why,"  said  the  baron,  "cannot  you  send  some  one  in  your 
place?" 

"  It  admits  of  no  substitute — I  must  attend  it  in  person— I  must 

away  to  Wurtzburg  cathedral " 

5 


13®  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

"Ah,"  said  the  baron,  plucking  up  spirit,  "but  not  until 
to-morrow — to-morrow  you  shall  take  your  bride  there." 

"No!  no  I"  replied  the  stranger,  with  tenfold  solemnity,  "my 
engagement  is  with  no  bride — the  worms !  the  worms  expect  me  \  I 
am  a  dead  man — I  have  been  slain  by  robbers — my  body  lies  at 
Wurtzburg — at  midnight  I  am  to  be  buried — the  grave  is  waiting 
for  me — I  must  keep  my  appointment !  " 

He  sprang  on  his  black  charger,  dashed  over  the  drawbridge, 
and  the  clattering  of  his  horse's  hoofs  was  lost  in  the  whistling  of 
Jhe  night  blast. 

The  baron  returned  to  the  hall  in  the  utmost  consternation,  and 
related  what  had  passed.  The  ladies  fainted  outright,  others  sickened 
at  the  idea  of  having  banqueted  with  a  spectre.  It  was  the  opinion 
of  some  that  this  might  be  the  wild  huntsman,  famous  in  German 
legend.  Some  talked  of  mountain  sprites,  of  wood-demons,  and 
of  other  supernatural  beings,  with  which  the  good  people  of 
Germany  have  been  so  grievously  harassed  since  time  immemorial. 
One  of  the  poor  relations  ventured  to  suggest  that  it  might  be  some 
sportive  evasion  of  the  young  cavalier,  and  that  the  very  gloomi. 
ness  of  the  caprice  seemed  to  accord  with  so  melancholy  « 
personage.  This,  however,  drew  on  him  the  indignation  of  the 
whole  company,  and  especially  of  the  baron,  who  looked  upon  him 
as  little  better  than  an  infidel,  so  that  he  was  fain  to  abjure  his 
heresy  as  speedily  as  possible,  and  come  into  the  faith  of  the 
true  believers. 

But  whatever  may  have  been  the  doubts  entertained,  they  were 
completely  put  to  an  end  by  the  arrival,  next  day,  of  regular  mis 
sives,  confirming  the  intelligence  of  the  young  count's  murder,  and 
his  interment  in  Wurtzburg  cathedral. 

The  dismay  at  the  castle  may  well  be  imagined.  The  baron 
shut  himself  up  in  his  chamber.  The  guests,  who  had  come  to 
rejoice  with  him,  could  not  think  of  abandoning  him  in  his  distress. 
They  wandered  about  the  courts,  or  collected  in  groups  in  the 
hall,  shaking  their  heads  and  shrugging  their  shoulders,  at  the 
troubles  of  so  good  a  man ;  and  sat  longer  than  ever  at  table,  and 
ate  and  drank  more  stoutly  than  ever,  by  way  of  keeping  up  their 
spirits.  But  the  situation  of  the  widowed  bride  was  the  most 
pitiable.  To  have  lost  a  husband  before  she  had  even  embraced 
him — and  such  a  husband  !  if  the  very  spectre  could  be  so  gracious 
and  noble,  what  must  have  been  the  living  man.  She  filled  the 
house  with  lamentations. 

On  the  night  of  the  second  day  of  her  widowhood,  she  had 
retired  to  her  chamber,  accompanied  by  one  of  her  aunts,  who 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  131 

insisted  on  sleeping  with  her.  The  "aunt,  who  was  one  of  the  best 
tellers  of  ghost  stories  in  all  Germany,  had  just  been  recounting  one 
of  her  longest,  and  had  fallen  asleep  in  the  very  midst  of  it.  The 
chamber  was  remote,  and  overlooked  a  small  garden.  The  niece 
lay  pensively  gazing  at  the  beams  of  the  rising  moon,  as  they 
trembled  on  the  leaves  of  an  aspen-tree  before  the  lattice.  The 
castle  clock  had  just  tolled  midnight,  when  a  soft  strain  of  music 
stole  up  from  the  garden.  •  She  rose  hastily  from  her  bed,  and 
stepped  lightly  to  the  window.  A  tall  figure  stood  among  the 
shadows  of  the  trees.  As  it  raised  its  head,  a  beam  of  moonlight 
fell  upon  the  countenance.  Heaven  and  earth!  she  beheld  the 
Spectre  Bridegroom  !  A  loud  shriek  at  that  moment  burst  upon  her 
ear,  and  her  aunt,  who  had  been  awakened  by  the  music,  and  had 
followed  her  silently  to  the  window,  fell  into  her  arms.  When  she 
looked  again,  the  spectre  had  disappeared. 

Of  the  two  females,  the  aunt  now  required  the  most  soothing,  for 
she  was  perfectly  beside  herself  with  terror.  As  to  the  young  lady, 
;here  was  something,  even  in  the  spectre  of  her  lover,  that  seemed 
endearing.  There  was  still  the  semblance  of  manly  beauty ;  and 
though  the  shadow  of  a  man  is  but  little  calculated  to  satisfy  the 
affections  of  a  love-sick  girl,  yet,  where  the  substance  is  not  to  be 
had,  even  that  is  consoling.  The  aunt  declared  she  would  never 
sleep  in  that  chamber  again  ;  the  niece,  for  once,  was  refractory 
and  declared  as  strongly  that  she  would  sleep  in  no  other  in  the 
castle  :  the  consequence  was,  that  she  had  to  sleep  in  it  alone  :  but 
she  drew  a  promise  from  her  aunt  not  to  relate  the  story  of  the 
spectre,  lest  she  should  be  denied  the  only  melancholy  pleasure  left 
her  on  earth — that  of  inhabiting  the  chamber  over  which  the 
guardian  shade  of  her  lover  kept  its  nightly  vigils. 

How  long  the  good  old  lady  would  have  observed  this  promise  is 
uncertain,  for  she  dearly  loved  to  talk  of  the  marvellous,  and  there 
is  a  triumph  in  being  the  first  to  tell  a  frightful  story  ;  it  is,  how 
ever,  still  quoted  in  the  neighborhood,  as  a  memorable  instance  of 
female  secrecy,  that  she  kept  it  to  herself  for  a  whole  week ;  when 
she  was  suddenly  absolved  from  all  further  restraint,  by  intelligence 
brought  to  the  breakfast  table  one  morning  that  the  young  lady 
was  not  to  be  found.  Her  room  was  empty — the  bed  had  not  been 
slept  in — the  window  was  open,  and  the  bird  had  flown  ! 

The  astonishment  and  concern  with  which  the  intelligence  was 
received,  can  only  be  imagined  by  those  who  have  witnessed  the 
agitation  which  the  mishaps  of  a  great  man  cause  among  his 
friends.  Even  the  poor  relations  paused  for  a  moment  from  the 
indefatigable  labors  of  the  trencher ;  when  the  aunt,  who  had  at 


132  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

first  been  struck  speechless,  wrung  her  hands,  and  shrieked  out, 
"The  goblin !  the  goblin !  she's  carried  away  by  the  goblin." 

In  a  few  words  she  related  the  fearful  scene  of  the  garden,  and 
concluded  that  the  spectre  must  have  carried  off  his  bride.  Two 
of  the  domestics  corroborated  the  opinion,  for  they  had  heard  the 
clattering  of  a  horse's  hoofs  down  the  mountain  about  midnight, 
and  had  no  doubt  that  it  was  the  spectre  on  his  black  charger, 
bearing  her  away  to  the  tomb.  All  present  were  struck  with  the 
direful  probability  ;  for  events  of  the  kind  are  extremely  common 
in  Germany,  as  many  well  authenticated  histories  bear  witness. 

What  a  lamentable  situation  was  that  of  the  poor  baron  !  What 
a  heart-rending  dilemma  for  a  fond  father,  and  a  member  of  the 
great  family  of  Katzenellenbogen !  His  only  daughter  had  either 
been  rapt  away  to  the  grave,  or  he  was  to  have  some  wood-demon 
for  a  son-in-law,  and,  perchance,  a  troop  of  goblin  grandchildren. 
As  usual,  he  was  completely  bewildered,  and  all  the  castle  in  an 
uproar.  The  men  were  ordered  to  take  horse,  and  scour  every 
'oad  and  path  and  glen  of  the  Odenwald.  The  baron  himself  had 
just  drawn  on  his  jack-boots,  girded  on  his  sword,  and  was  about 
to  mount  his  steed  to  sally  forth  on  the  doubtful  quest,  when  he 
was  brought  to  a  pause  by  a  new  apparition.  A  lady  was  seen 
approaching  the  castle,  mounted  on  a  palfrey,  attended  by  a 
cavalier  on  horseback.  She  galloped  up  to  the  gate,  sprang  from 
her  horse,  and  falling  at  the  baron's  feet,  embraced  his  knees.  It 
was  his  lost  daughter,  and  her  companion — the  Spectre  Bride 
groom  !  The  baron  was  astounded.  He  looked  at  his  daughter, 
then  at  the  spectre,  and  almost  doubted  the  evidence  of  his  senses. 
The  latter,  too,  was  wonderfully  improved  in  his  appearance  since 
his  visit  to  the  world  of  spirits.  His  dress  was  splendid,  and  set 
off  a  noble  figure  of  manly  symmetry.  He  was  no  longer  pale  and 
melancholy.  His  fine  countenance  was  flushed  with  the  glow  of 
youth,  and  joy  rioted  in  his  large,  dark  eye. 

The  mystery  was  soon  cleared  up.  The  cavalier  (for,  in  truth, 
as  you  must  have  known  all  the  while,  he  was  no  goblin)  announced 
himself  as  Sir  Herman  Von  Starkenfaust.  He  related  his  adven 
ture  with  the  young  count.  He  told  how  he  had  hastened  to  the 
castle  to  deliver  the  unwelcome  tidings,  but  that  the  eloquence  of 
the  baron  had  interrupted  him  in  every  attempt  to  teli  his  tale. 
How  the  sight  of  the  bride  had  completely  captivated  him,  and 
that  to  pass  a  few  hours  near  her,  he  had  tacitly  suffered  the  mis 
take  to  continue.  How  he  had  been  sorely  perplexed  in  what  \\  ay 
to  make  a  decent  retreat,  until  the  baron's  goblin  stories  had  sug 
gested  his  eccentric  exit.  HOH/.  fearing  the  feudal  hostility  of  th« 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  133 

family,  he  had  repeated  his  visits  by  stealth — had  haunted  the 
garden  beneath  the  young  lady's  window — had  wooed — had  won — 
had  borne  away  in  triumph — and,  in  a  word,  had  wedded  the  fair. 

Under  any  other  circumstances  the  baron  would  have  been  in 
flexible,  for  he  was  tenacious  of  paternal  authority,  and  devoutly 
obstinate  in  all  family  feuds ;  but  he  loved  his  daughter ;  he  had 
lamented  her  as  lost ;  he  rejoiced  to  find  her  still  alive;  and, 
though  her  husband  was  of  a  hostile  house,  yet,  thank  Heaven,  he 
was  not  a  goblin.  There  was  something,  it  must  be  acknowledged, 
that  did  not  exactly  accord  with  his  notions  of  strict  veracity,  in 
the  joke  the  knight  had  passed  upon  him  of  his  being  a  dead  man; 
but  several  old  friends  present,  who  had  served  in  the  wars,  assured 
him  that  every  stratagem  was  excusable  in  love,  and  that  the  cava 
lier  was  entitled  to  especial  privilege,  having  lately  served  as  a 
trooper. 

Matters,  therefore,  were  happily  arranged.  The  baron  pardoned 
the  young  couple  on  the  spot.  The  revels  at  the  castle  were 
resumed.  The  poor  relations  overwhelmed  this  new  member  of 
the  family  with  loving  kindness  ;  he  was  so  gallant,  so  generous — 
and  so  rich.  The  aunts,  it  is  true,  were  somewhat  scandalized  that 
their  system  of  strict  seclusion,  and  passive  obedience  should  be  so 
badly  exemplified,  but  attributed  it  all  to  their  negligence  in  not 
having  the  windows  grated.  One  of  them  was  particularly  mortified 
at  having  her  marvellous  story  marred,  and  that  the  only  spectre 
she  had  ever  seen  should  turn  out  a  counterfeit :  but  the  niece 
seemed  perfectly  happy  at  having  found  him  substantial  flesh  and 
blood — and  so  the  story  ends. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

When  I  behold,  with  deep  astonishment. 
To  famous  Westminster  how  there  resorte 
Living  in  brasse  or  stoney  monument, 
The  princes  and  the  worthies  of  all  sorte ; 
Doe  not  I  see  reformde  npbilitie, 
Without  contempt,  or  pride,  or  ostentation, 
And  looke  upon  offenseless  majesty, 
Naked  of  pomp  or  earthly  domination  ? 
And  how  a  play-game  of  a  painted  stone 
Contents  the  quiet  now  and  silent  sprites, 
Whome  all  the  world  which  late  they  stood  upcn 
Could  not  content  or  quench  their  appetites. 
Life  is  a  frost  of  cold  felicitie, 
And  death  the  thaw  of  all  our  vanitie. 

CHRISTOLERO'S  EPIGRAMS,  BYT.  B.    1598. 

ON  one  of  those  sober  and  rather  melancholy  days,  in  the  latter 
part  of  Autumn,  when  the  shadows  of  morning  and  evening 
almost  mingle  together,  and  throw  a  gloom  over  the  declining 
of  the  year,  I  passed  several  hours  inrambling  about  Westminster 
Abbey.     There  was   something    congenial  to   the    season    in   the 
mournful  magnificence  of  the  old  pile ;  and,  as  I  passed  its  thres 
hold,  seemed  like  stepping  back  into  the  regions  of  antiquity,  and 
losing  myself  among  the  shades  of  former  ages. 

I  entered  from  the  inner  court  of  Westminster  School,  through  a 
long,  low,  vaulted  passage,  that  had  an  almost  subterranean  look, 
being  dimly  lighted  in  one  part  by  circular  perforations  in  the 
massive  walls.  Through  this  dark  avenue  1  had  a  distant  view  of 
the  cloisters,  with  the  figure  of  an  old  verger,  in  his  black  gown, 
moving  along  their  shadowy  vaults,  and  seeming  like  a  spectre 
from  one  of  the  neighboring  tombs.  The  approach  to  the  abbey 
through  these  gloomy  monastic  remains  prepares  the  mind  for  its 
solemn  contemplation.  The  cloisters  still  retain  something  of  the 
quiet  and  seclusion  of  former  days.  The  gray  walls  are  discolored 
by  damps,  and  crumbling  with -age;  a  coat  of  hoafcy  moss  has 
gathered  over  the  inscripHpns  of  the,,  mural  monuments,  and 
obscured  the  death's  heads,  and  other  funereal  ernblems.  The  sharp 
touches  of  the  chisM  are  gone  from  the  rich  traceTy  of  the  arches  ; 
the  roses  which  adorned  the  key-stdnes  have  lost  their  leafy  beauty  ; 
everything  bears  marks  of  the  gradual  dilapidations  of  time,  which 
yet  has  something  touching  and  pleasing  in  its  very  decay. 

The  sun  was  pouring  down  a  yellow  autufanal  ray  into  the  square 
of  the  cloisters;  beaming  upon  a  scanty  plot  of  grass  in  the  centre, 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  135 

and  lighting  up  an  angle  of  the  vaulted  passage  with  a  kind  of 
dusky  splendor.  From  between  the  arcades,  the  eye  glanced  up 
to  a  bit  of  blue  sky  or  a  passing  cloud ;  and  beheld  the  sun-gilt 
pinnacles  of  the  abbey  towering  into  the  azure  heaven. 

As  I  paced  the  cloisters,  sometimes  contemplating  this  mingled 
picture  y<Q  glory  and  decay,  and  sometimes  endeavoring  to  decipher 
the  ins\.iptions  on  the  tombstones,  which  formed  the  pavement 
beneath  my  feet,  my  eye  was  attracted  to  three  figures,  rudely 
carved  in  relief,  but  nearly  worn  away  by  the  footsteps  of  many 
generations.  They  were  the  effigies  of  three  of  the  early  abbots ; 
the  epitaphs  were  entirely  effaced ;  the  names  alone  remained, 
having,  no  doubt,  been  renewed  in  later  times.  (Vitalis  Abbas. 
1082,  and  Gislebertus  Crispinus.  Abbas,  1114,  and  Laurentius. 
Abbas.  1176.)  I  remained  some  little  while,  musing  over  these 
casual  relics  of  antiquity,  thus  left  like  wrecks  upon  this  distant 
shore  of  time,  telling  no  tale  but  that  such  beings  had  been,  and 
had  perished ;  teaching  no  moral  but  the  futility  of  that  pride  which 
hopes  still  to  exact  homaige  in  its  ashes,  and  to  live  in  an  inscrip 
tion.  A  little  longer,  and  even  these  faint  records  will  be  obXter- 
ated,  and  the  monument  will  cease  to  be  a  memorial.  Whilst  I 
was  yet  looking  down  upon  these  grave-stones,  I  was  roused  by  the 
sound  of  the  abbey  clock,  reverbe\iting  from  buttress  to  buttress, 
and  echoing  among  the  cloisters.  It  is  almost  startling  to  hear  this 
warning  of  departed  time  sounding  among  the  tombs,  and  telling 
the  lapse  of  the  hour,  which,  like  a  billow,  has  rolled  us  onward 
towards  the  grave.  I  pursued  my  walk  to  an  arched  door  opening 
to  the  interior  of  the  abbey.  On  entering  here,  the  magnitude  of 
the  building  breaks  fully  upon  the  mind,  contrasted  with  the  vaults 
of  the  cloisters.  The  eyes  gaze  with  wonder  at  clustered  columns 
of  gigantic  dimensions,  with  arches  springing  from  them  to  such  an 
amazing  height;  and  man  wandering  about  their  bases,  shrunk 
into  insignificance  in  comparison  with  his  own  handiwork.  The 
spaciousness  and  gloom  of  this  vast  edifice  produce  a  profound  and 
mysterious  a\e.  We  step  cautiously  and  softly  about,  as  if  fearful 
of  disturbing  the  hallowed  silence  of  the  tomb ;  while  every  footfall 
whispers  along  the  walls,  and  chatters  among  the  sepulchres,  mak 
ing  us  more  sensible  of  the  quiet  we  have  interrupted. 

It  seems  as  if  the  awful  nature  of  the  place  presses  down  upon 
the  soul,  and  hushes  the  beholder  into  noiseless  reverence.  We 
feel  that  we  are  surrounded  by  the  congregated  bones  of  the  great 
men  of  past  times,  who  have  filled  history  with  their  deeds,  and  the 
earth  with  their  renown. 

And  yet  it  almost  provokes  a  smile  at  the  vanity  of  human  ambi- 


136  THE  SKETCH-B  O  OK. 

tion,  to  see  how  they  are  crowded  together  and  jostrfed  in  the  dust ; 
what  parsimony  is  observed  in  doling  out  a  scanty  nook,  a  gloomy 
corner,  a  little  portion  of  earth,  to  those,  whom,  when  alive,  king 
doms  could  not  satisfy  ;  and  how  many  shapes,  and  forms,  and 
artifices,  are  devised  to  catch  the  casual  notice  of  the  passenger, 
and  save  from  forgetfulness,  for  a  few  short  years,  a  name  which 
once  aspired  to  occupy  ages  of  the  world's  thought  and  admira 
tion. 

I  passed  some  time  in  Poet's  Corner,  which  occupies  an  end  of 
one  of  the  transepts  or  cross  aisles  of  the  abbey.  The  monuments 
are  generally  simple  ;  for  the  lives  of  literary  men  afford  no  striking 
themes  for  the  sculptdr.  Shakspeare  and  Addistm  have  statues 
erected  to  their  memories  ;  but  the  greater  part  have  busts,  medal 
lions,  and  sometimes  mere  inscriptions.  Notwithstanding  the 
simplicity  of  these  memorials,  I  have  always  observed  that  the 
visitors  to  the  abbey  remained  longest  about  them.  A  kinder  and 
fonder  feeling  takes  place  of  that  cold  curiosity  or  vague  admiration 
with  which  they  gaze  on  the  splendid  monuments  of  the  great  and 
the  heroic.  They  linger  about  these  as  about  the  tombs  of  friends 
and  companions ;  for,  indeed,  there  is  something  of  companionship 
between  the  author  and  thesreader.  Other  men  are  known  to 
posterity  only  through  the  median!  of  history,  which  is  continually 
growing  faint  and  obscure  :  but  the  intercourse  between  the  authoi 
and  his  fellow-men  is  ever  new,  active,  and  immediate.  He  has 
lived  for  them  more  than  for  himself ;  he  has  sacrificed  surrounding 
enjoyments,  and  shut  himself  up  frorothe  delights  of  social  life, 
that  he  might  the  more  intimately  comrnwne  with  distant  minds  and 
distant  ages.  Well  may  the  world  che'rish  his  renown  ;  for  it  has 
been  purchased,  not  by  deeds  of  violence  and  blood,  but  by  the 
diligent  dispensation  of  pleasure.  Well  may  postemy  be  grateful 
lo  his  memory  ;  for  he  has  left  it  an  inheritance,  not  of  empty 
names  and  sounding  actions,  but  whole  treasures  of  wisdom,  bright 
gems  of  thought,  and  golden  veins  of  language. 

From  Poet's  Corner  I  continued  my  stroll  towards  that  part  of 
the  abbey  which  contains  the  sepulchres  of  the  kings.  I  wandered 
among  what  once  were  ch\)els,  but  which  are  now  occupied  by 
the  tombs  and  monuments  of  the  great.  At  every  turn  I  met  with 
some  illustrious  name,  or  the  cognizance  of  some  powerful  house 
renowned  in  history.  As  the  eye  darts  into  these  dusky  chambers 
of  death,  it  catches  glimpses  of  quaint  effig&is ;  some  kneeling  in 
niches, _  as  if  in  devotioji ;  others  stretched  upon  the  tombs,  with 
hands  piously/  pressed  together:  warriors  in  armor,  as  if  reposing 
after  battle ;  prelates  with  crosiers  and  mitres ;  and  nobles  in  robes 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  137 

and  coronets,  1/ing,  as  it  were,  in  state.     In  glancing  over  this  scene, 
so  strangely  populous,  yet  where  every  form  is  so  still  and  silent, 
it   seems    almost  as  if  we  were  treading  a  mansion  of  that  fabled     + 
city,  where  every  being  had  been  suddenly  trananuted  into  stonj^r 

I  paused  to  contemplate  a  tomb  on  which  lay  the  effigy  ofa 
knight  in  complete  armor.',  A  large  buxokler  was  on  one  arm  ;  the 
liands  were  pressed  together  in  suppl^aBon  upon  the  breast:  the 
face  was  almost  covered  by  the  morifcn  ;  the  legs  were  crossed,  in 
token  of  the  warrior's  having  been  engaged  in  the  holy  war.  I< 
was  the  tomb  of  a  crusatler  ;  of  one  of  those  military  enthusra,<ts; 
who  so  strangely  mingled  religion  and  romanVe,  and  whose  exproits 
form  the  connecting  link  between  fact  and  fiction  ;  between  the 
history  and  the  fairy  tale.  There  is  something;  extremely  picturesque 
in  the  fombs  of  these  adventurers,  decora fe<Xas  they  are  with  rude 
armoria,!  bearings  and  Gothic  sculpture,  i  hey  comport  with  the 
antiquated  chapels  in  which  they  are  generally  found  ;  and  in  con 
sidering  them,  the  imagination  is  apt  to  kindle  with  the  legendary 
associations,  the  romantic  fiction,  the  chivalrous  pomp  and 
pageantry,  which  poetry  has  spread  over  the  wars  for  the  sepulchre 
of  Christ.  They  are  the  rehcs  of  times  utterly  gone  by  ;  of  beings 
passed  from  recollection  ;  of  customs  and  manners  with  which  ours 
have  no  affimty;  They  are  like  objects  from  some  strange  and 
distant  land,  of  which  we  have  no  certain  knowledge,  and  about 
which  all  our  conceptions  are  vague  and  visionary.  There  is  some 
thing  extremely  solemn  and  awful  in  those  effigies  on  Gothic  tombs, 
extended  as  if  in  the  sleep  of  death,  or  in  the  supplication  of  the 
dying  hour.  They  have  an  effect  infinitely  more  impressive  on  my 
feelings  than  the  fanciful  attitiMes,  the  over-wrought  conceits,  and 
allegorical  groups,  which  abound  on  modern  monuments.  1  have 
been  struck,  also,  with  the  supeViority  of  many  of  the  old  sepulchral 
inscriptions.  There  was  a  noble  way,  in  former  times,  of  saying 
things  simply,  and  yet  saying  them  proudly ;  and  I  do  not  know  an 
epitaph  that  breathes  a  loftier  consciousness  of  family  worth  and 
honorable  lineage,  than  one  which  affirms,  of  a  noble  house,  that 
"all  the  brothers  were  brave,  and  all  the  sisters  virtuous." 

In  the  opposite  transept  to  Poet's  Corner  stands  a  monument 
which  is  among  the  most  renowned  achievements  of  modern  art ; 
but  which  to  me  appears  horrible  rather  than  sublime.  It  is  the 
tomb  of  Mrs.  Nightingale,  by  Roubillac.  The  bottom  of  the 
monument  is  represented  as  throwing  open  its  marble  doors,  and  a 
sheeted  skeleton  is  starting  forth.  The  shroud  is  falling  from  his 
fleshless  frame  as  he  launches  his  dart  at  his  victim.  She  is  sinking 
into  her  affrighted  husband's  arms,  who  strives,  with  vain  and 


I3S  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

frantic  effort,  to  avert  the  blow.  The  whole  is  executed  with  terri 
ble  truth  and  spirit ;  we  almost  fancy  we  hear  the  gibblring  yell  of 
triumph  bursting  from  the  distended  jaws  of  the  spectre.  But  why 
should  we  thus  seek  to  clothe  death  with  unnecessary  terrors,  and 
to  spread  horrors  round  the  tomb  of  those  we  love  ?  The  grave 
should  be  surrounded  by  everything  that  might  inspire  tenderness 
and  veneration  for  the  dead  ;  or  that  might  win  the  living  to  virtue. 
It  is  the  place,  not  of  disgust  and  dismay,  but  of  sorrow  and  medi 
tation. 

While  wandering  about  these  gloomy  vaults  and  silent  aisles, 
studying  the  records  of  the  dead,  the  sound  of  busy  existence  from 
withcnat  occasionally  reaches  the  ear ; — the  rumbling  of  the  passing 
equipage ;  the  murmur  of  the  multitude  ;  or,  perhaps,  the  light  laugh 
of  pleasure.  The  contrast  is  striking  with  the  deathlike  repose 
around :  and  it  has  a  strange  effect  upon  the  feelings,  thus  to  hear 
the  surges  of  active  life  hurrying  along,  and  beating  against  the 
very  walls  of  the  sepulchre. 

I  continued  in  this  way  to  move  from  tomb  to  tomb,  and  from 
chapel  to  chapel.  The  day  was  gradually  wearing  away ;  the 
distant  tread  of  loiterers  about  the  abbey  grew  less  and  less  fre 
quent  ;  the  sweet-tongued  bell  was  summoning  to  evening  prayer ; 
and  I  saw  at  a  distance  the  choristers,  in  their  white  surplioes, 
crossing  the  aisle  and  entering  the  choir.  I  stood  before  the  en 
trance  to  Henry  the  Seventh's  chapel.  A  flight  of  steps  lead  up  to 
it,  through  a  deep  and  gloomy  but  magnificent  arch;  Great  gates 
of  brass,  richly  and  delicately  wrought,  turn  heavily  upon  their 
hinges,  as  if  proudly  reluctant  to  admit  the  feet  of  common  mortals 
into  this  most  gorgeous  of  sepulchres. 

On  entering,  the  eye  is  astonished  by  the  pomp  of  architecture, 
and  the  elaborate  beauty  of  sculptured  detail.  The  very  walls  are 
wrought  into  universal  ornament,  incrusted  with  tracery,  and 
scooped  into  niches,  crowded  with  the  statues  of  saints  and  mar 
tyrs.  Stone  seems,  by  the  cunning  labor  of  the  chisel,  to  have 
been  robbed  of  its  weight  and  density,  suspended  aloft,  as  if  by 
magic,  and  the  fretted  roof  achieved  with  the  wonderful  minute 
ness  and  airy  security  of  a  cobweb. 

Along  the  sides  of  the  chapel  are  the  lofty  stalls  of  the  Knights 
of  the  Bath,  richly  carved  of  oak,  though  with  the  grotesque  decor 
ations  of  Gotnic  architecture.  On  the  pinnacles  of  the  stalls  are 
affixed  the  helmets  and  crests  of  the  knights,  with  their  scarfs  and 
swords  ;  and  above  them  are  suspended  their  banners,  emblazoned 
with  armorial  bearings,  and  contrasting  the  splendor  of  gold  and 
purple  and  crimson,  with  the  cold,  gray  fretwork  of  the  roof.  In 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  13$ 

the  midst  of  this  grand  mausoleum  stands  the  sepulchre  of  its 
founder,— his  effigy,  with  that  of  his  queen,  extended  on  a  sump 
tuous  tomb,  and  the  whole  surrounded  by  a  superbly-wrought 
brazen  railing. 

There  is  a  sad  dreariness  in  this  magnificence ;  this  strange 
mixture  of  tombs  and  trophies ;  .these  emblems  of  living  and  aspir 
ing  ambition,  close  beside  mementos  which  show  the  dust  and 
obli\ion  in  which  all  must  sooner  or  later  terminate.  Nothing 
impresses  the  mind  with  a  deeper  feeling  of  loneliness,  than  to  tread 
the  silent  and  deserted  scene  of  former  throng  and  pageVnt.  On 
looking  round  on  the  vacant  stalls  of  the  knights  and  their  esqaires, 
and  on  the  rows  of  dusty  but  gorgeous  banners  that  were  once 
borne  before  them,  my  imagination  conjured  up  the  scene  when 
this  hall  was  bright  with  the  vUlor  and  beauty  of  the  land ;  glitter 
ing  with  the  splendor  of  jeweled  rank  and  military  array ;  alive 
with  the  tread  of  many  feet  and  the  hum  of  an  admiring  multitude. 
All  had  passed  away ;  the  silence  of  death  had  settled  again  upon 
the  place,  interrupted  only  by  the  casaal  chirping  of  birds,  which 
had  found  their  way  into  the  chapel,  and  built  their  nests  among 
its-friefes  and  pendants — sure  signs  of  solitariness  and  desertion. 

When  I  read  the  names  inscribed  on  the  banners^  they  were 
those  of  men  scattered  far  and  wide  about  the  world  ;  some  tossing 
upon  distant  seas  ;  some  under  arms  in  distant  lands  ;  some  min 
gling  in  the  busy  intrigues  of  courts  and  cabinets  ;  all  seeking  to 
deserve  one  more  distinction  in  this  mansion  of  shadowy  honors : 
the  melancholy  reward  of  a  monument. 

Two  small  aisles  on  each  side  of  this  chapel  present  a  touching 
instance  of  the  equality  of  the  grave ;  which  brings  down  the 
oppressor  to  a  level  with  the  oppressed,  and  mingles  the  dust  of 
the  bitterest  enemies  together.  In  one  is  the  sepulchre  of  the 
haughty  Elizabeth ;  in  the  other  is  that  of  her  victim,  the  lovely 
and  unfortunate  Mary.  Not  an  hour  in  the  day  but  some  ejacftla- 
tion  of  pity  is  uttered  over  the  fate  of  the  latter,  mingled  with 
indisnjaJtion  at  her  oppressor.  The  walls  of  Elizabeth's  sepulchre 
continually  echo  with  the  sighs  of  sympathy  heaved  at  the  grave 
of  her  rival.  • 

A  peculiar  melancnoly  reigns  over  the  aisle  where  Mary  lies 
buried.  The  light  struggles  dimly  through  windows  darkened  by 
dust.  The  greater  part  of  the  place  is  in  deep  shadow,  and  the 
walls  are  stained  and  tinted  by  time  and  weather.  A  marble 
figure  of  Mary  is  stretched  upon  the  tomb,  round  which  is  an  iron 
railing,  much  corroded,  bearing  her  national  emblem — the  thistle. 
I  was  weary  with  wandering,  and  sat  down  to  rest  myself  by  tito 


*4<>  THS  SKETCH-BOOK. 

monument,  revolving  in  my  mind  the  chequered  and  disastrous 
story  of  poor  Mary. 

The  sound  of  casual  footsteps  had  ceased  from  the  abbey.  I 
could  only  hear,  now  and  then,  the  distant  voice  of  the  priest 
repeating  the  evening  service,  and  the  faint  responses  of  the  choir ; 
these  paused  for  a  time,  and  all  was  hushed.  The  stillness,  the 
desermm  and  obsSurity  that  were  gradually  prevailing  around,  gave 
a  deeper  and  more  solemn  interest  to  the  place : 

For  in  the  silent  grave  no  conversation, 
No  joyful  tread  of  friends,  no  voice  of  lovers. 
No  careful  father's  coimsel — nothing's  heard, 
For  nothing  is,  but  all  oblivion, 
Dust,  and  an  endless  darkness. 

Suddenly  the  notes  of  the  deep-laboring  organ  burst  upon  the 
ear,  falling  with  doubled  and  redoubled  intensity,  and  rolling,  as  it 
were,  huge  billows  of  sound.  How  well  do  their  volume  and 
grandeur  accord  with  this  mighty  building!  With  what  pomp 
do  they  swell  through  its  vast  vaults,  and  breathe  their  awful 
harmony  through  these  caves  of  death,  and  make  the  silent  sepul 
chre  vocal !  And  now  they  rise  in  triumph  and  acclamation,  heav 
ing  higher  and  higher  their  accordant  notes,  and  piling  sound  on 
sound.  And  now  they  pause,  and  the  soft  voices  ot  the  choir 
break  out  into  sweet  gushes  of  melody  ;  they  soar  aloft,  and  warble 
along  the  roof,  and  seem  to  play  about  these  lofty  vaults  like  the 
pure  airs  of  heaven.  Again  the  pealing  organ  heaves  its  thrilling 
thunders,  compressing  air  into  music,  and  rolling  it  forth  upon  the 
soul.  What  long-drawn  cadences  !  What  solemn  sweeping  con 
cords  !  It  grows  more  and  more  dense  and  powerful — it  fills  the 
vast  pile,  and  seems  to  jar  the  very  walls — the  ear  is  stunned — the 
senses  are  overwhelmed.  And  now  it  is  winding  up  in  full  jubilee 
— it  is  rising  from  the  earth  to  heaven — the  very  soul  seems  rapt 
away  and  floated  upwards  on  this  swelling  tide  of  harmony! 

I  sat  for  some  time  lost  in  that  kind  of  reverie  which  a  strain  of 
music  is  apt  sometimes  to  inspire  :  the  shadows  of  evening  were 
gradually  thickening  round  me ;  the  monuments  began  to  cast 
deeper  and  deeper  gloom ;  and  the  distant  clock  again  gave  token 
of  the  slowly  waning  day. 

I  rose  and  prepared  to  leave  the  abbey.  As  I  descended  the 
flight  of  steps  which  lead  into  the  body  of  the  building,  my  eye 
was  caught  by  the  shrine  of  Edward  the  Confessor,  and  I  ascended 
the  small  staircase  that  conducts  to  it,  to  take  from  thence  a  general 
survey  of  this  <vilderness  of  tombs.  The  shrine  is  elevated  upon  a 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  141 

kind  of  platform,  and  close  around  it  are  the  sepulchres  of  various 
kings  and  queens.  From  this  eminence  the  eye  looks  down 
between  pillars  and  funeral  trophies  to  the  chapels  and  chambers 
below,  crowded  with  tombs;  where  warriors,  prelates,  courtiers 
and  statesmen,  lie  mouldering  in  their  "beds  of  darkness."  Close 
by  me  stood  the  great  chair  of  coronation,  rudely  carved  of  oak, 
in  the  barbarous  taste  of  a  remote  and  Gothic  age.  The  scene 
seemed  almost  as  if  contrived,  with  theatrical  artifice,  to  produce 
an  effect  upon  the  beholder.  Here  was  a  type  of  the  beginning 
and  the  end  of  human  pomp  and  power  ;  here  it  was  literally  but  a 
step  from  the  throne  to  the  sepulchre.  Would  not  one  think  that 
these  incongruous  mementos  had  been  gathered  together  as  a 
lesson  to  living  greatness  ? — to  show  it,  even  in  the  moment  of  its 
proudest  exaltation,  the  neglect  and  dishonor  to  which  it  must  soon 
arrive  ;  how  soon  that  crown  which  encircles  its  brow  must  pass 
away,  and  it  must  lie  down  in  the  dust  and  disgraces  of  the  tomb, 
and  be  trampled  upon  by  the  feet  ot  the  meanest  of  the  multitude. 
For,  strange  to  tell,  even  the  grave  is  here  no  longer  a  sanctuary. 
There  is  a  shocking  levity  in  some  natures,  which  leads  them  to 
sport  with  awful  and  hallowed  things ;  and  there  are  base  minds, 
which  delight  to  revenge  on  the  illustrious  dead  the  abject  homage 
and  grovelling  servility  which  they  pay  to  the  living.  The  coffin 
of  Edward  the  Confessor  has  been  broken  open,  and  his  remains 
despoiled  of  their  funeral  ornaments ;  the  sceptre  has  been  stolen 
from  the  hand  of  the  imperious  Elizabeth,  and  the  effigy  of  Henry 
the  Fifth  lies  headless.  Not  a  royal  monument  but  bears  some 
proof  how  false  and  fugitive  is  the  homage  of  mankind.  Some 
are  plundered  ;  some  mutilated ;  some  covered  with  ribaldry  and 
insult — all  more  or  less  outraged  and  dishonored  ! 

The  last  beams  of  day  were  now  faintly  streaming  through  the 
painted  windows  in  the  high  vaults  above  me ;  the  lower  parts  of 
the  abbey  were  already  wrapped  in  the  obscurity  of  twilight.  The 
chapels  and  aisles  grew  darker  and  darker.  The  effigies  of  the 
kings  faded  into  shadows;  the  marble  figures  of  the  monuments 
assumed  strange  shapes  in  the  uncertain  light ;  the  evening  breeze 
crept  through  the  aisles  like  the  cold  breath  of  the  grave ;  and  even 
the  distant  footfall  of  a  verger,  traversing  the  Poet's  Corner,  had 
something  strange  and  dreary  in  its  sound.  I  slowly  retraced  my 
morning's  walk,  and  as  I  passed  out  at  the  portal  of  the  cloisters, 
the  door,  closing  with  a  jarring  noise  behind  me,  filled  the  whole 
building  with  echoes. 

I  endeavored  to  form  some  arrangement  in  my  mind  of  the 
objects  I  had  been  contemplating,  but  found  they  were  already 


I42  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

fallen  into  indistinctness  and  confusion.  Names,  inscriptions, 
trophies,  had  all  become  confounded  in  my  recollection,  though  I 
had  scarcely  taken  my  foot  from  off  the  threshold.  What,  thought 
I,  is  this  vast  assemblage  of  sepulchres  but  a  treasury  cf  humilia 
tion;  a  huge  pile  of  reiterated  homilies  on  the  emptiness  of  renown, 
and  the  certainty  of  oblivion!  \It  is,  indeed,  the  empire  of  death; 
his  great,  shadowy  palace,  where  he  sits  in  state,  mocking  at  the 
relics  of  human  glory,  and  spreading  dust  and  forgetfulness  on  the 
monuments  of  princes.  How  idle  a  beast,  after  all,  is  the  immor 
tality  of  a  name !  Time  is  ever  silently  turning  over  his  pages ;  we 
are  too  much  engrossed  by  the  story  of  the  present  to  think  of  the 
characters  and  anecdotes  that  gave  interest  to  the  past ;  and  each 
age  is  a  volume  thrown  aside  to  be  speedily  forgotten.  The  idol 
of  to-day  pushes  the  hero  of  yesterday  out  of  our  recollection ;  and 
will,  in  turn,  be  supplanted  by  his  successor  of  to-morrow.)  "Our 
fathers,"  says  Sir  Thomas  Brown,  "find  their  graves  in  our  short 
memories,  and  sadly  tell  us  how  we  may  be  buried  in  our  survivors." 
History  fades  into  fable ;  fact  becomes  clouded  with  doubt  and 
controversy;  the  inscription  moulders  from  the  tablet;  the  statue 
falls  from  the  pedestal.  Columns,  arches,  pyramids,  what  are  they 
but  heaps  of  sand  ;  and  their  epitaphs,  but  characters  written  in 
the  dust?  What  is  the  security  of  a  tomb,  or  the  perpetuity  of  an 
embalmment?  The  remains  of  Alexander  the  Great  have  been 
scattered  to  the  wind,  and  his  empty  sarcophagus  is  now  the  mere 
curiosity  of  a  museum.  "The  Egyptian  mummies,  which  Cam- 
byses  or  time  hath  spared,  avarice  now  consumeth  ;  Mizraim  cures 
wounds,  and  Pharaoh  is  sold  for  balsams."* 

What,  then,  is  to  insure  this  pile  which  now  towers  above  me  from 
sharing  the  fate  of  mightier  mausoleums?  The  time  must  come 
when  its  gilded  vaults,  which  now  spring  so  loftily,  shall  lie  in  rub 
bish  beneath  the  feet ;  when,  instead  of  the  sound  of  melody  and 
praise,  the  wind  shall  whistle  through  the  broken  arches,  and  the 
owl  hoot  from  the  shattered  tower — when  the  garish  sunbeam  shall 
break  into  these  gloomy  mansions  of  death,  and  the  ivy  twine  round 
the  fallen  column  ;  and  the  fox-glove  hang  its  blossoms  about  the 
nameless  urn,  as  if  in  mockery  of  the  dead.  Thus  man  passes 
away  ;  his  name  perishes  from  record  and  recollection  ;  his  history 
is  as  a  tale  that  is  told,  and  his  very  monument  becomes  a  ruin.f 

•  Sir  T.  Browu.  \  For  notes  on  Westminster  Abbey,  see  Appendix, 


CHRISTMAS. 

But  is  Md,  old,  good  old  Christmas  gone  ?  Nothing  but  the  hair  cf  his  good, 
gray  old  head,  ana  beard  left?  Well,  I  will  have  that,  seeing  I  cannot  nave 
more  of  him.  HUE  AND  €RY  AFTEH  CHRISTMAS. 

A  man  might  then  behold 

At  Christinas,  in  each  hall 
Good  fires  to  curb  the  cold, 

And  meat  for  great  and  small. 
The  neighbors  were  friendly  bidden, 

And  all  had  welcome  true, 
The  poor  from  the  gates  were  not  chidden 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

OLD  SONG. 

"VTOTHING  in  England  exercises  a  more  delightful  spell  over  my 
|\  imagination,  than  the  lingerings  of  the  holiday  customs  and 
rural  games  of  former  times.  They  recall  the  pictures  my 
fancy  used  to  draw  in  the  May  morning  of  life,  when  as  yet  I  only 
knew  the  world  through  books,  and  believed  it  to  be  all  that  poets 
had  painted  it ;  and  they  bring  with  them  the  flavor  of  those  honest 
days  of  yore,  in  which,  perhaps,  with  equal  fallacy,  I  am  apt  to 
think  the  world  was  more  homebred,  social  and  joyous  than  at 
present.  I  regret  to  say  that  they  are  daily  growing  more  and 
more  faint,  being  gradually  worn  away  by  time,  but  still  more 
obliterated  by  modern  fashion.  They  resemble  those  picturesque 
morsels  of  Gothic  architecture  which  we  see  crumbling  in  various 
parts  of  the  country,  partly  dilapidated  by  the  waste  of  ages,  and 
partly  lost  in  the  additions  and  alterations  of  later  days.  Poetry, 
however,  clings  with  cherishing  fondness  about  the  rural  game  and 
holiday  revel,  from  which  it  has  derived  so  many  of  its  themes 
— as  the  ivy  winds  its  rich  foliage  about  the  Gothic  arch  and 
mouldering  tower,  gratefully  repaying  their  support  by  clasping 
together  their  tottering  remains,  and,  as  it  were,  embalming  them 
in  verdure. 

Of  all  the  old  festivals,  however,  that  of  Christmas  awakens  the 
strongest  and  most  heartfelt  associations.  There  is  a  tone  of  solemn 
and  sacred  feeling  that  blends  with  our  conviviality,  and  lifts  the 
spirit  to  a  state  of  hallowed  and  elevated  enjoyment  The  services 
of  the  church  about  this  season  are  extremely  tender  and  inspiring* 
They  dwell  on  the  beautiful  story  of  the  origin  of  our  faith,  and 
the  pastoral  scenes  that  accompanied  its  announcement.  They 
gradually  increase  in  fervor  and  pathos  during  the  season  of 
Advent,  until  they  break  forth  in  full  jubilee  on  the  morning  that 


f./  t. 


144  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

brought  peace  and  good-will  to  men.  I  do  not  know  a  grander 
effect  of  music  on  the  moral  feelings,  than  to  hear  the  full  choir 
and  the  pealing  organ  performing  a  Christmas  anthem  in  a  cathe 
dral,  and  filling  every  part  of  the  vast  pile  with  triumphant  har 
mony. 

It  is  a  beautiful  arrangement,  also,  derived  from  days  of  yore; 
that  this  festival,  which  commemorates  the  announcement  of  the 
religion  of  peace  and  love,  has  been  made  the  season  forgathering 
_  together  of  family  connections,  and  drawing  closer  again  those 
bands  of  kindred  hearts,  which  the  cares  and  pleasures  and  sorrows 
of  the  world  are  continually  operating  to  cast  loose;  of  calling  back 
the  children  of  a  family,  who  have  launched  forth  in  life,  and  wan 
dered  widely  asunder,  once  more  to  assemble  about  the  paternal 
hearth,  that  rallying  place  of  the  affections,  there  to  grow  young 
and  loving  again  among  the  endearing  mementos  of  childhood. 

There  is  something  in  the  very  season  of  the  year  that  gives  a 
charm  to  the  festivity  of  Christmas.  At  other  times  we  derive  a 

great  portion  of  our  pleasures  from  the  mere  beauties  of  nature. 

Our  feelings  sally  forth  and  dissipate  themselves  over  the  sunny 
landscape,  and  we  "live  abroad  and  everywhere."  The  song  of 
""  the  bird,  the  murmur  of  the  stream,  the  breathing  fragrance  of 
spring,  the  soft  voluptuousness  of  summer,  the  golden  pomp  of 
autumn;  earth  with  its  mantle  of  refreshing  green,  and  heaven  with 
its  deep,  delicious  blue  and  its  cloudy  magnificence,  all  fill  us  with 
mute  but  exquisite  delight,  and  we  revel  in  the  luxury  of  mere  sen- 
|  sation.  But  in  the  depth  of  winter,  when  nature  lies  despoiled  of 
!  every  charm,  and  wrapped  in  her  shroud  of  sheeted  snow,  we  turn 
,  for  our  gratifications  to  moral  sources.  The  dreariness  and  desola 
tion  of  the  landscape,  the  short,  gloomy  days  and  darksome  nights, 
while  they  circumscribe  our  wanderings,  shut  in  our  feelings  also 
from  rambling  abroad,  and  make  us  more  keenly  disposed  for  the 
pleasure  of  the  social  circle.  Our  thoughts  are  more  concentrated; 
our  friendly  sympathies  more  aroused.  We  feel  more  sensibly  the 
charm  of  each  other's  society,  and  are  brought  more  closely 
together  by  dependence  on  each  other  for  enjoyment.  Heart  call- 
eth  unto  heart ;  and  we  draw  our  pleasures  from  the  deep  wells  of 
loving-kindness,  which  lie  in  the  quiet  recesses  of  our  bosoms;  and 
which,  when  resorted  to,  furnish  forth  the  pure  element  of  domes 
tic  felicity. 

The  pitchy  gloom  without  makes  the  heart  dilate  on  entering  the 
room  filled  with  the  glow  and  warmth  of  the  evening  fire.  The 
ruddy  blaze  diffuses  an  artificial  summer  and  sunshine  through  the 
room,  and  lights  up  each  countenance  in  a  kindlier  welcome. 


CHRISTMAS.  145 

Where  does  the  honest  face  of  hospitality  expand  into  a  broader 
and  more  cordial  smile — where  is  the  shy  glance  of  love  more  sweetly 
eloquent — than  by  the  winter  fireside?  and  as  the  hollow  blast  of 
wintry  wind  rushes  through  the  hall,  claps  the  distant  door,  whistles 
about  the  casement,  and  rumbles  down  the  chimney,  what  can  be 
more  grateful  than  that  feeling  of  sober  and  sheltered  security,  with 
which  we  look  round  upon  the  comfortable  chamber  and  the  scene 
of  domestic  hilarity  ? 

The  English,  from  the  great  prevalence  of  rural  habit  throughout 
every  class  of  society,  have  always  been  fond  of  those  festivals 
and  holidays  which  agreeably  interrupt  the  stillness  of  country 
life ;  and  they  were,  in  former  days,  particularly  observant  of  the 
religious  and  social  rites  of  Christmas.  It  is  inspiring  to  read  even 
the  dry  details  which  some  antiquaries  have  given  of  the  quaint 
humors,  the  burlesque  pageants,  the  complete  abandonment  to 
mirth  and  good  fellowship,  with  which  this  festival  was  celebrated. 
It  seemed  to  throw  open  every  door  and  unlock  every  heart.  It 
brought  the  peasant  and  the  peer  together,  and  blended  all  ranks 
in  one  warm  generous  flow  of  joy  and  kindness.  The  old  halls  of 
castles  and  manor-houses  resounded  with  the  harp  and  the  Christ 
mas  carol,  and  their  ample  boards  groaned  under  the  weight  of 
hospitality.  Even  the  poorest  cottage  welcomed  the  festive  season 
with  green  decorations  of  bay  and  holly — the  cheerful  fire  glanced 
its  rays  through  the  lattice,  inviting  the  passengers  to  raise  the  latch, 
and  join  the  gossip  knot  huddled  round  the  hearth,  beguiling  the  \ 
long  evening  with  legendary  jokes  and  oft-told  Christmas  tales. 

One  of  the  least  pleasing  effects  of  modern  refinement  is  the  havoc 
it  has  made  among  the  hearty  old  holiday  customs.  It  has  com 
pletely  taken  off  the  sharp  touchings  and  spirited  reliefs  of  these 
embellishments  of  life,  and  has  worn  down  society  into  a  more 
smooth  and  polished,  but  certainly  a  less  characteristic  surface. 
Many  of  the  games  and  ceremonials  of  Christmas  have  entirely 
disappeared,  and,  like  the  sherris  sack  of  old  Falstaff,  are  become 
matters  of  speculation  and  dispute  among  commentators.  They 
flourished  in  times  full  of  spirit  and  lustihood,  when  men  enjoyed 
life  roughly,  but  heartily  and  vigorously;  times  wild  and  picturesque, 
which  have  furnished  poetry  with  its  richest  materials,  and  the 
drama  with  its  most  attractive  variety  of  characters  and  manners. 
The  world  has  become  more  worldly.  There  is  more  of  dissipa 
tion,  and  less  of  enjoyment.  (Pleasure  has  expanded  into  a  broader, 
but  a  shallower  stream;  and  has  forsaken  many  of  those  deeplind 
quiet  channels  where  it  flowed  sweetly  through  the  calm  bosom  of 

domestic  lifeTj  Society  has  acquired  a  more  enlightened  and-ele? 
^-— J 


I46  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

gant  tone  ;  but  it  has  lost  many  of  its  strong  local  peculiarities,  i^s 
homebred  feelings,  its  honest,  fireside  delights.  The  traditionary 
customs  of  golden-hearted  antiquity,  its  feudal  hospitalities,  and 
lordly  wassailings,  have  passed  away  with  the  baronial  castles  and 
stately  manor-houses  in  which  they  were  celebrated.  They  com 
ported  with  the  shadowy  hall,  the  great  oaken  gallery,  and  the  tap 
estried  parlor,  but  are  unfitted  to  the  light,  showy  saloons  and  gay 
drawing-rooms  of  the  modern  villa. 

Shorn,  however,  as  it  is,  of  its  ancient  and  festive  honors,  Christ 
mas  is  still  a  period  of  delightful  excitement  in  England.  It  is 
gratifying  to  see  that  home  feeling  completely  aroused  which  holds 
so  powerful  a  place~"1n  every  English  bosom.  The  preparations 
making  on  every  side  for  the  social  board  that  is  again  to  unite 
friends  and  kindred  ;  the  presents  of  good  cheer  passing  and  repass- 
ing,  those  tokens  of  regard,  and  quickeners  of  kind  feeling :  the 
evergreens  distributed  about  houses  and  churches,  emblems  of 
peace  and  gladness ;  all  these  have  the  most  pleasing  effect  in 
producing  fond  associations,  and  kindling  benevolent  sympathies.  * 
Even  the  sound  of  the  Waits,  rude  as  may  be  their  minstrelsy, 
breaks  upon  the  mid-watches  of  a  winter  night  with  the  effect  of 
perfect  harmony.  As  I  have  been  awakened  by  them  in  that  still 
and  solemn  hour,  "when  deep  sleep  falleth  upon  man,"  I  have 
listened  with  a  hushed  delight,  and,  connecting  them,  with  the 
sacred  and  joyous  occasion,  have  almost  fancied  them  into  another 
celestial  choir,  announcing  peace  and  good-will  to  mankind. 

How  delightfully  the  imagination,  when  wrought  upon  by  these 
moral  influences,  turns  everything  to  melody  and  beauty !  The 
very  crowing  of  the  cock,  heard  sometimes  in  the  profound  repose 
of  the  country,  "  telling  the  night  watches  to  his  feathery  dames," 
was  thought  by  the  common  people  to  announce  the  approach  of 
this  sacred  festival. 

"  Some  say  that  ever  'gainst  that  season  comes 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  is  celebrated, 
This  bird  of  dawning  singeth  all  night  long  ; 
And  then,  they  say,  no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad, 
The  nights  are  wholesome — then  no  planets  strike. 
No  fairy  takes,  no  witch  hath  power  to  charm, 
So  hallow' d  and  so  gracious  is  the  time." 

Amidst  the  general  call  to  happiness,  the  bustle  of  the  spirits,  and 
stir  of  the  affections,  which  prevail  at  this  period,  what  bosom  can 
remain  insensible?  It  is,  indeed,  the  season  of  regenerated  feeling 
-—the  season  for  kindling,  not  merely  the  fire  of  hospitality  in  the 
ball,  but  the  genial  flame  of  charity  in  the  heart. 


THE  STAGE  CGACH.  147 

The  scene  of  early  love  again  rises  green  to  memory  beyond  the 
sterile  waste  of  years;  and  the  idea  of  home,  fraught  with  the 
fragrance  of  home-dwelling  joys,  reanimates  the  drooping  spirit ; 
as  the  Arabian  breeze  will  sometimes  waft  the  freshness  of  the  dis 
tant  fields  to  the  weary  pilgrim  of  the  desert. 

Stranger  and  sojourner  as  I  am  in  the  land — though  for  me  n© 
social  hearth  may  blaze,  no  hospitable  roof  throw  open  its  doors, 
nor  the  warm  grasp  of  friendship  welcome  me  at  the  threshold — 
yet  I  feel  the  influence  of  the  season  beaming  into  my  soul  from  the 
happy  looks  of  those  around  me.  Surely  happiness  is  reflective, 
like  the  light  of  heaven  ;  and  every  countenance,  bright  with  smiles, 
and  glowing  with  innocent  enjoyment,  is  a  mirror  transmitting  to 
others  the  rays  of  a  supreme  and  ever-shining  benevolence.  H« 
who  can  turn  churlishly  away  from  contemplating  the  felicity  of  hi* 
fellow- beings,  and  can  sit  down  darkling  and  repining  in  his  loneli 
ness  when  all  around  is  joyful,  may  have  his  moments  of  strong 
excitement  and  selfish  gratification,  but  he  wants  the  genial  and 
social  sympathies  which  constitute  the  charm  of  a  merry  Christmas. 


THE    STAGE    COACS. 

Orane  ben6 

Sine  poena 
Tenipus  est  ludendi. 

venit  hora 

Absque  mor^ 
Libros  deponendi. 

OLD  HOLIDAY  SCHOOL  SONG. 

TN  the  preceding  paper  I  have  made  some  general  observations 

on  the  Christmas  festivities  of  England,  and  am  tempted  to 

illustrate  them  by  some  anecdotes  of  a  Christmas  passed  in  the 

country ;   in  perusing  which  I  would  most  courteously  invite  my 

reader    to  lay  aside  the  austerity  of  wisdom,  and  to  put  on  that 

genuine  holiday  spirit  which  is  tolerant  of  folly,  and  anxious  only 

for  amusement. 

In  the  course  of  a  December  tour  in  Yorkshire,  I  rode  for  a  long 
distance  in  rjne  of  the  public  coaches,  on  the  day  preceding  Christ 
mas.  The  coach  was  crowded,  both  inside  and  out,  with  passen 
gers,  who,  by  their  talk,  seemed  principally  bound  to  the  mansions 
of  relations  or  friends,  to  eat  the  Christmas  dinner.  It  was  loaded 
also  with  hampers  of  game,  and  baskets  and  boxes  of  delicacies  ; 
and  hares  hung  dangling  their  long  ears  about  the  coachman'  % 


I48  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

box,  presents  from  distant  friends  for  the  impending  feast.  I  had 
three  fine  rosy-cheeked  boys  for  my  fellow-passengers  inside,  full 
of  the  buxom  health  and  manly  spirit  which  I  have  observed  in  the 
children  of  this  country.  They  were  returning  home  for  the  holi 
days  in  high  glee,  and  promising  themselves  a  world  of  enjoyment. 
It  was  delightful  to  hear  the  gigantic  plans  of  the  little  rogues,  and 
the  impracticable  feats  they  were  to  perform  during  their  six  weeks' 
emancipation  from  the  abhorred  thraldom  of  book,  birch,  and  ped 
agogue.  They  were  full  of  anticipations  of  the  meeting  with  the 
family  and  household,  down  to  the  very  cat  and  dog  ;  and  of  the 
joy  they  were  to  give  their  little  sisters  by  the  presents  with  which 
their  pockets  were  crammed;  but  the  meeting  to  which  they  seemed 
to  look  forward  with  the  greatest  impatience  was  with  Bantam,  which 
I  found  to  be  a  pony,  and,  according  to  their  talk,  possessed  of 
more  virtues  than  any  steed  since  the  days  of  Bucephalus.  How 
he  could  trot !  how  he  could  run !  and  then  such  leaps  as  he 
would  take — there  was  not  a  hedge  in  the  whole  country  that  he 
could  not  clear. 

They  were  under  the  particular  guardianship  of  the  coachman, 
to  whom,  whenever  an  opportunity  presented,  they  addressed  a 
host  of  questions,  and  pronounced  him  one  of  the  best  fellows  in 
the  world.  Indeed,  I  could  not  but  notice  the  more  than  ordinary 
air  of  bustle  and  importance  of  the  coachman,  who  wore  his  hat  a 
little  on  one  side,  and  had  a  large  bunch  of  Christmas  greens  stuck 
in  the  button-hole  of  his  coat.  He  is  always  a  personage  full  of 
mighty  care  and  business,  but  he  is  particularly  so  during  this 
season,  having  so  many  commissions  to  execute  in  consequence  of 
the  great  interchange  of  presents.  And  here,  perhaps,  it  may  not 
be  unacceptable  to  my  untravelled  readers,  to  have  a  sketch  that 
may  serve  as  a  general  representation  of  this  very  numerous  and 
important  class  of  functionaries,  who  have  a  dress,  a  manner,  a 
language,  an  air,  peculiar  to  themselves,  and  prevalent  throughout 
the  fraternity  ;  so  that,  wherever  an  English  stage  coachman  may 
be  seen,  he  cannot  be  mistaken  for  one  of  any  other  craft  or 
mystery. 

He  has  commonly  a  broad,  full  face,  curiously  mottled  with  red, 
as  if  the  blood  had  been  forced  by  hard  feeding  into  every  vessel 
of  the  skin ;  he  is  swelled  into  jolly  dimensions  by  frequent  pota 
tions  of  malt  liquors,  and  his  bulk  is  still  further  increased  by  a 
multiplicity  of  coats,  in  which  he  is  buried  like  a  cauliflower,  the 
upper  one  reaching  to  his  heels.  He  wears  a  broad-brimmed, 
low-crowned  hat;  a  huge  roll  of  colored  handkerchief  about  his 
neck,  knowingly  knotted  and  tucked  in  at  the  bosom ;  and  has  in 


'  THE  STA  GE  CO  A  CH.  149 

summer  time  a  large  bouquet  of  flowers  in  his  button-hole  ;  the  pres 
ent,  most  probably,  of  some  enamored  country  lass.  His  waist 
coat  is  commonly  of  some  bright  color,  striped,  and  his  small 
clothes  extend  far  below  the  knees,  to  meet  a  pair  of  jockey  boots 
which  reach  about  half  way  up  his  legs. 

All  this  costume  is  maintained  with  much  precision  ;  he  has  a 
pride  in  having  his  clothes  of  excellent  materials;  and,  notwith 
standing  the  seeming  grossness  of  his  appearance,  there  is  still 
discernible  that  neatness  and  propriety  of  person,  which  is  almost 
inherent  in  an  Englishman.  He  enjoys  great  consequence  and 
consideration  along  the  road;  has  frequent  conferences  with  the 
village  housewives,  who  look  upon  him  as  a  man  of  great  trust  and 
dependence;  and  he  seems  to  have  a  good  understanding  with 
every  bright-eyed  country  lass.  The  moment  he  arrives  where  the 
horses  are  to  be  changed,  he  throws  down  the  reins  with  something 
of  an  air,  and  abandons  the  cattle  to  the  care  of  the  hostler  ;  his 
duty  being  merely  to  drive  from  one  stage  to  another.  When  off 
the  box,  his  hands  are  thrust  into  the  pockets  of  his  great  coat,  and 
he  rolls  about  the  inn  yard  with  an  air  of  the  most  absolute  lord 
liness.  Here  he  is  generally  surrounded  by  an  admiring  throng  of 
hostlers,  stable-boys,  shoeblacks,  and  those  nameless  hangers-on 
that  infest  inns  and  taverns,  and  run  errands,  and  do  all  kind  of 
odd  jobs,  for  the  privilege  of  battening  on  the  drippings  of  the 
kitchen  and  the  leakage  of  the  tap-room.  These  all  look  up  to 
him  as  to  an  oracle;  treasure  up  his  cant  phrases;  echo  his  opinions 
about  horses  and  other  topics  of  jockey  lore;  and,  above  all, 
endeavor  to  imitate  his  air  and  carriage.  Every  ragamuffin  that 
has  a  coat  to  his  back,  thrusts  his  hands  in  the  pockets,  rolls  in 
his  gait,  talks  slang,  and  is  an  embryo  Coachey. 

Perhaps  it  might  be  owing  to  the  pleasing  serenity  that  reigned 
in  my  own  mind,  that  I  fancied  I  saw  cheerfulness  in  every  counte 
nance  throughout  the  journey.  A  stage  coach,  however,  carries 
animation  always  with  it,  and  puts  the  world  in  motion  as  it  whirls 
along.  The  horn,  sounded  at  the  entrance  of  a  village,  produces  a 
general  bustle.  Some  hasten  forth  to  meet  friends  ;  some  with 
bundles  and  bandboxes  to  secure  places,  and  in  the  hurry  of  the 
moment  can  hardly  take  leave  of  the  group  that  accompanies  them. 
In  the  mean  time,  the  coachman  has  a  world  of  small  commissions 
to  execute.  Sometimes  he  delivers  a  hare  or  pheasant;  sometimes 
jerks  a  small  parcel  or  newspaper  to  the  door  of  a  public  house ; 
and  sometimes,  with  knowing  leer  and  words  of  sly  import,  hands 
to  some  half-blushing,  half-laughing  housemaid  an  odd-shaped 
billet-doux  from  some  rustic  admirer.  As  the  coach  rattles  through 


l  JO  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  village,  every  one  runs  to  the  window,  and  you  have  giances 
on  every  side  of  fresh,  country  faces  and  blooming,  giggling  girl?. 
At  the  corners  are  assembled  juntos  of  village  idlers  and  wise  men, 
who  take  their  stations  there  for  the  important  purpose  of  seeing 
company  pass ;  but  the  sagest  knot  is  generally  at  the  blacksmith's, 
to  whom  the  passing  of  the  coach  is  an  event  fruitful  of  much 
speculation.  The  smith,  with  the  horse's  heel  in  his  lap,  pauses  as 
the  vehicle  whirls  by  ;  the  Cyclops  round  the  anvil  suspend  their 
ringing  hammers,  and  suffer  the  iron  to  grow  cool ;  and  the  sooty 
spectre,  in  brown  paper  cap,  laboring  at  the  bellows,  leans  on  the 
handle  for  a  moment,  and  permits  the  asthmatic  engine  to  heave  a 
long-drawn  sigh,  while  he  glares  through  the  murky  smoke  and 
sulphureous  gleams  of  the  smithy. 

Perhaps  the  impending  holiday  might  have  given  a  more  than 
usual  animation  to  the  country,  for  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  everybody 
was  in  good  looks  and  good  spirits.  Game,  poultry,  and  other 
luxuries  of  the  table,  were  in  brisk  circulation  in  the  villages;  the 
grocers',  butchers'  and  fruiterers'  shops  were  thronged  with  cus 
tomers.  The  housewives  were  stirring  briskly  about,  putting  their 
dwellings  in  order ;  and  the  glossy  branches  of  holly,  with  their 
bright-red  berries,  began  to  appear  at  the  windows.  The  scene 
brought  to  mind  an  old  writer's  account  of  Christmas  preparations: 
— "Now  capons  and  hens,  beside  turkeys,  geese,  and  ducks,  with 
beef  and  mutton — must  all  die — for  in  twelve  days  a  multitude  of 
people  will  not  be  fed  with  a  little.  Now  plums  and  spice,  sugar 
and  honey,  square  it  among  pies  and  broth.  Now  or  never  must 
music  be  in  tune,  for  the  youth  must  dance  and  sing  to  get  them  a 
heat,  while  the  aged  sit  by  the  fire.  The  country  maid  leaves  half 
her  market,  and  must  be  sent  again,  if  she  forgets  a  pack  of  cards 
on  Christmas  eve.  Great  is  the  contention  of  holly  and  ivy, 
whether  master  or  dame  wears  the  breeches.  Dice  and  cards 
benefit  the  butler;  and  if  the  cook  do  not  lack  wit,  he  will  sweetly 
lick  his  fingers." 

I  was  roused  from  this  fit  of  luxurious  meditation  by  a  shout 
from  my  little  travelling  companions.  They  had  been  looking  out 
of  the  coach  windows  for  the  last  few  miles,  recognizing  every  tree 
and  cottage  as  they  approached  home,  and  now  there  was  a  general 
burst  of  joy — "There's  John!  and  there's  old  Carlo!  and  there's 
Bantam ! "  cried  the  happy  little  rogues,  clapping  their  hands. 

At  the  end  of  a  lane  there  was  an  old,  sober-looking  servant  in 
\rery,  waiting  for  them;  he  was  accompanied  by  a  superannuated 
pointer,  and  by  the  redoubtable  Bantam,  a  little  old  rat  of  a  pony, 
with  a  shaggy  rnane  and  long,  rusty  tail,  who  stood  dozing  quietly 


\THE  STAGE  COACH.  :  51 

by  the  road-side,  little  dreaming  of  the  bustling  times  that  awaited 
him. 

I  was  pleased  to  see  the  fondness  with  which  the  little  fellows 
leaped  about  the  steady  old  footman,  and  hugged  the  pointer,  who 
wriggled  his  whole  body  for  joy.  But  Bantam  was  the  great  object 
of  interest;  all  wanted  to  mount  at  once,  and  it  was  with  some 
difficulty  that  John  arranged  that  they  should  ride  by  turns,  and 
the  eldest  should  ride  first. 

Off  they  set  at  last;  one  on  the  pony,  with  the  dog  bounding  and 
barking  before  him,  and  the  others  holding  John's  hands;  both 
talking  at  once,  and  overpowering  him  with  questions  about  home, 
and  with  school  anecdotes.  I  looked  after  them  with  a  feeling  in 
which  I  do  not  know  whether  pleasure  or  melancholy  predominated; 
for  I  was  reminded  of  those  days  when,  like  them,  I  had  neither 
known  care  nor  sorrow,  a_nd  a  holiday  was  the  summit  of  earthly 
felicity.  We  stopped  a  few  moments  afterwards  to  water  the 
horses,  and  on  resuming  our  route,  a  turn  of  the  road  brought  us 
in  sight  of  a  neat  country  seat.  I  could  just  distinguish  the  forms 
of  a  lady  and  two  young  girls  in  the  portico,  and  I  saw  my  little 
comrades,  with  Bantam,  Carlo,  and  old  John,  trooping  along  the 
carriage  road.  I  leaned  out  of  the  coach  window,  in  hopes  of 
witnessing  the  happy  meeting,  but  a  grove  of  trees  shut  it  from  my 
sight. 

In  the  evening  we  reached  a  village  where  I  had  determined  to 
pass  the  night.  As  we  drove  into  the  great  gateway  of  the  inn, 
I  saw  on  one  side  the  light  of  a  rousing  kitchen  fire  beaming 
through  a  window.  I  entered,  and  admired,  for  the  hundredth 
time,  that  picture  of  convenience,  neatness,  and  broad,  honest 
enjoyment,  the  kitchen  of  an  English  inn.  It  was  of  spacious 
dimensions,  hung  round  with  copper  and  tin  vessels  highly  polished, 
and  decorated  here  and  there  with  a  Christmas  green.  Hams, 
tongues,  and  flitches  of  bacon  were  suspended  from  the  ceiling; 
a  smoke-jack  made  its  ceaseless  clanking  beside  the  fireplace,  and 
a  clock  ticked  in  one  corner.  A  well-scoured  deal  table  extended 
along  one  side  of  the  kitchen,  with  a  cold  round  of  beef,  and  other 
hearty  viands  upon  it,  over  which  two  foaming  tankards  of  ale 
seemed  mounting  guard.  Travellers  of  inferior  order  were  prepar 
ing  to  attack  this  stout  repast,  while  others  sat  smoking  and 
gossiping  over  their  ale  on  two  high-backed  oaken  settles  beside  the 
fire.  Trim  housemaids  were  hurrying  backwards  and  forwards 
under  the  directions  of  a  fresh,  bustling  landlady ;  but  still  seizing 
an  occcasional  moment  to  exchange  a  flippant  word,  and  have  a 
rallying  laugh,  with  the  group  round  the  fire.  The  scene  com- 


152  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

pletely  realized  Poor  Robin's  humble  idea  of  the  comforts  of  mid' 
winter: 

Now  trees  their  leafy  hats  do  bare'"" 
To  reverence  Winter's  silver  hair; 
A  handsome  hostess,  merry  host, 
A  pot  of  ale  now  and  a  toast, 
Tobacco  and  a  good  coal  fire, 
Are  things  this  season  doth  require.* 

1  had  not  been  long  at  the  inn  when  a  post-chaise  drove  up  to 
the  door.  A  young  gentleman  stept  out,  and  by  the  light  of  the 
lamps  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  countenance  which  I  thought  I  knew. 
I  moved  forward  to  get  a  nearer  view,  when  his  eye  caught  mine. 
I  was  not  mistaken  ;  it  was  Frank  Bracebridge,  a  sprightly,  good- 
humored  young  fellow,  with  whom  I  had  once  traveled  on  the 
continent.  Our  meeting  was  extremely  cordial,  for  the  countenance 
of  an  old  fellow-traveller  always  brings  up  the  recollection  of  a 
thousand  pleasant  scenes,  odd  adventures,  and  excellent  jokes. 
To  discuss  all  these  in  a  transient  interview  at  an  inn  was  impossible  ; 
and  finding  that  I  was  not  pressed  for  time,  and  was  merely 
making  a  tour  of  observation,  he  insisted  that  I  should  give  him  a 
day  or  two  at  his  father's  country  seat,  to  which  he  was  going  to 
pass  the  holidays,  and  which  lay  at  a  few  miles  distance.  "  It  is 
better  than  eating  a  solitary  Christmas  dinner  at  an  inn,"  said  he, 
"  and  I  can  assure  you  of  a  hearty  welcome  in  something  of  the 
old-fashioned  style."  His  reasoning  was  cogent,  and  I  must  con 
fess  the  preparation  I  had  seen  for  universal  festivity  and  social 
enjoyment  had  made  me  feel  a  little  impatient  of  my  loneliness.  I 
closed,  therefore,  at  once,  with  his  invitation  :  the  chaise  drove  up 
to  the  door,  and  in  a  few  moments  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  family 
mansion  of  the  Bracebridges. 

*  Poor  Bobin's  Almanac,  1684. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

Saint  Francis  and  Saint  Benedight 
Blesse  this  house  from  wicked  wight; 
From  the  night-mare  and  the  goblin, 
That  is  hight  good  fellow  Robin; 
Keep  it  from  all  evil  spirits, 
Fairies,  weezels,  rats,  and  ferrets: 

From  curfew  time 

To  the  next  prime. 

CARTWRIGHT. 

IT  was  a  brilliant  moonlight  night,  but  extremely  cold  ;  our  chais 
whirled  rapidly  over  the  frozen  ground  ;  the  post-boy  smacked 
his  whip  incessantly,  and  a  part  of  the  time  his  horses  were  on 
a  gallop.  "He  knows  where  he  is  going,"  said  my  companion, 
laughing,  "  and  is  eager  to  arrive  in  time  for  some  of  the  merriment 
and  good  cheer  of  the  servants'  hall.  My  father,  you  must  know, 
is  a  bigoted  devotee  of  the  old  school,  and  prides  himself  upon 
keeping  up  something  of  old  English  hospitality.  He  is  a  toler 
able  specimen  of  what  you  will  rarely  meet  with  nowadays  in 
its  purity,  the  old  English  country  gentleman ;  for  our  men  of  for 
tune  spend  so  much  of  their  time  in  town,  and  fashion  is  carried  so 
much  into  the  country,  that  the  strong,  rich,  peculiarities  of  ancient 
rural  life  are  almost  polished  away.  My  father,  however,  from 
early  years,  took  honest  Peacham  *  for  his  text-book,  instead  of 
Chesterfield  ;  he  determined  in  his  own  mind,  that  there  was  no 
condition  more  truly  honorable  and  enviable  than  that  of  a 
country  gentleman  on  his  paternal  lands,  and,  therefore,  passes  ih& 
whole  of  his  time  on  his  estate.  He  is  a  strenuous  advocate  u 
the  revival  of  the  old  rural  games  and  holiday  observances,  and  is 
deeply  read  in  the  writers,  ancient  and  modern,  who  have  treated 
on  the  subject,  Indeed,  his  favorite  range  of  reading  is  among  the 
authors  who  flourished  at  least  two  centuries  since  ;  who,  he  insists, 
wrote  and  thought  more  like  true  Englishmen  than  any  of  their 
successors.  He  even  regrets  sometimes  that  he  had  not  been  born 
a  few  centuries  earlier,  when  England  was  itself,  and  had  its 
peculiar  manners  and  customs.  As  he  lives  at  some  distance  from 
the  main  road,  in  rather  a  lonely  part  of  the  country,  without  any 
rival  gentry  near  him,  he  has  that  most  enviable  of  all  blessings 
to  an  Englishman,  an  opportunity  of  indulging  the  bent  of  his  own 
humor  without  molestation.  Being  representative  of  the  oldest 
*  Peucham's  complete  Gentleman.  l£"tt 


i$4  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

family  in  the  neighborhood,  and  a  great  part  of  the  peasantry 
being  his  tenants,  he  is  much  looked  up  to,  and,  in  general,  is 
known  simply  by  the  appellation  of  '  The  Squire  ;  '  a  title  which 
has  been  accorded  to  the  head  of  the  family  since  time  immemorial. 
I  think  it  best  to  give  you  these  hints  about  my  worthy  old  father, 
to  prepare  you  for  any  eccentricities  that  might  otherwise  appear 
absurd." 

We  had  passed  for  some  time  along  the  wall  of  a  park,  and  at 
length  the  chaise  stopped  at  the  gate.  It  was  in  a  heavy,  magnifi 
cent  old  style,  of  iron  bars,  fancifully  wrought  at  top  into  flourishes 
and  flowers.  The  huge,  square  columns  that  supported  the  gate 
were  surmounted  by  the  family  crest.  Close  adjoining  was  the 
porter's  lodge,  sheltered  under  dark  fir-trees,  and  almost  buried  in 
shrubbery. 

The  post-boy  rang  a  large  porter's  bell,  which  resounded  through 
the  still,  frosty  air,  and  was  answered  by  the  distant  barking  of 
dogs,  with  which  the  mansion-house  seemed  garrisoned.  An  old 
woman  immediately  appeared  at  the  gate.  As  the  moonlight  fell 
strongly  upon  her,  I  had  a  full  view  of  a  little,  primitive  dame, 
dressed  very  much  in  the  antique  taste,  with  a  neat  kerchief  and 
stomacher,  and  her  silver  hair  peeping  from  under  a  cap  of  snowy 
whiteness.  She  came  courtesying  forth,  with  many  expressions  of 
simple  joy  at  seeing  her  young  master.  Her  husband,  it  seemed, 
was  up  at  the  house  keeping  Christmas  eve  in  the  servants'  hall ; 
they  could  not  do  without  him,  as  he  was  the  best  hand  at  a  song 
and  story  in  the  household. 

My  friend  proposed  that  we  should  alight  and  walk  through  the 
park  to  the  hall,  which  was  at  no  great  distance,  while  the  chaise 
should  follow  on.  Our  road  wound  through  a  noble  avenue  of 
trees,  among  the  naked  branches  of  which  the  moon  glittered,  as 
she  rolled  through  the  deep  vault  of  a  cloudless  sky.  The  lawn 
beyond  was  sheeted  with  a  slight  revering  of  snow,  which  here  and 
there  sparkled  as  the  moon-beams  caught  a  frosty  crystal;  and  at  a 
distance  might  be  seen  a  thin,  transparent  vapor,  stealing  up  from 
the  low  grounds  and  threatening  gradually  to  shroud  the  land 
scape. 

My  companion  looked  around  him  with  transport:  "How 
often,"  said  he,  "have  I  scampered  up  this  avenne,  on  returning 
home  on  school  vacations !  How  often  have  I  played  under  these 
trees  when  a  boy  !  I  feel  a  degree  of  filial  reverence  for  them,  as 
we  look  up  to  those  who  have  cherished  us  in  childhood.  My 
father  was  always  scrupulous  in  exacting  our  holidays,  and  having 
us  around  him  on  family  festivals.  He  used  to  direct  and  superin- 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  l$§ 

tend  our  games  with  the  strictness  that  some  parents  do  the  studies 
of  their  children.  He  was  very  particular  that  we  should  play  the 
old  English  games  according  to  their  original  form  ;  and  consulted 
old  books  for  precedent  and  authority  for  every  'merrie  disport;' 
yet  I  assure  you  there  never  was  pedantry  so  delightful.  It  was 
the  policy  of  the  good  old  gentleman  to  make  his  children  feel  that 
home  was  the  happiest  place  in  the  world ;  and  I  value  this 
delicious  home-feeling  as  one  of  the  choisest  gifts  a  parent  could 
bestow.'" 

We  were  interrupted  by  the  clamor  of  a  troop  of  dogs  of  all  sorts 
and  sizes,  "mongrel,  puppy,  whelp  and  hound,  and  curs  of  low 
degree,"  that,  disturbed  by  the  ring  of  the  porter's  bell  and 
the  rattling  of  the  chaise,  came  bounding,  open-mouthed,  across 
the  lawn. 

" The  little  dogs  and  all, 

Tray,  Blanch,  and  Sweetheart,  see,  they  bark  at  me  !'* 

cried  Bracebridge,  laughing.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  bark 
was  changed  into  a  yelp  of  delight,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  sur 
rounded  and  almost  overpowered  by  the  caresses  of  the  faithful 
animals.. 

We  had  now  come  in  full  view  of  the  old  family  mansion,  partly 
thrown  in  deep  shadow,  and  partly  lit  up  by  the  cold  moonshine. 
It  was  an  irregular  building,  of  some  magnitude,  and  seemed  to  be 
of  the  architecture  of  different  periods.  One  wing  was  evidently  very 
ancient,  with  heavy  stone-shafted  bow  windows  jutting  out  and 
overrun  with  ivy,  from  among  the  foliage  of  which  the  small, 
diamond-shaped  panes  of  glass  glittered  with  the  moon-beams. 
The  rest  of  the  house  was  in  the  French  taste  of  Charles  the 
Second's  time,  having  been  repaired  and  altered,  as  my  friend  told 
me,  by  one  of  his  ancestors,  who  returned  with  that  monarch  at 
the  Restoration.  The  grounds  about  the  house  were  laid  out  in  the 
old  formal  manner  of  artificial  flower-beds,  clipped  shrubberies, 
raised  terraces,  and  heavy  stone  balustrades,  ornamented  with 
urns,  a  leaden  statue  or  two,  and  a  jet  of  water.  The  old  gentle 
man,  I  was  told,  was  extremely  careful  to  preserve  this  obsolete 
finery  in  all  its  original  state.  He  admired  this  fashion  in  garden 
ing  ;  it  had  an  air  of  magnificence,  was  courtly  and  noble,  and 
befitting  good  old  family  style.  The  boasted  imitation  of  nature  in 
modern  gardening  had  sprung  up  with  modern  republican  notions, 
but  did  not  suit  a  monarchical  government;  it  smacked  of  the 
levelling  system — I  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  introduction  of 
politics  into  gardening,  though  1  expressed  some  apprehension 


156  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

that  I  should  find  the  old  gentleman  rather  intolerant  in  his  creed. 
Frank  assured  me,  however,  that  it  was  almost  the  only  instance 
in  which  he  had  ever  heard  his  father  meddle  with  politics  ;  and  he 
believed  that  he  had  got  this  notion  from  a  member  of  parliament 
who  once  passed  a  few  weeks  with  him.  The  squire  was  glad  of 
any  argument  to  defend  his  clipped  yew-trees  and  formal  terraces, 
which  had  been  occasionally  attacked  by  modern  landscape 
gardeners. 

As  we  approached  the  house,  we  heard  the  sound  of  music,  and 
now  and  then  a  burst  of  laughter,  from  one  end  of  the  building. 
This,  Bracebridge  said,  must  proceed  from  the  servants'  hall,  where 
a  great  deal  of  revelry  was  permitted,  and  even  encouraged  by  the 
squire,  throughout  the  twelve  days  of  Christmas,  provided  every 
thing  was  done  conformably  to  ancient  usage.  Here  were  kept  up 
the  old  games  of  hoodman  blind,  shoe  the  wild  mare,  hot  cockles, 
steal  the  white  loaf,  bob  apple,  and  snap  dragon  :  the  Yule  clog  and 
Christmas  candle  were  regularly  burnt,  and  the  mistletoe,  with  its 
white  berries,  hung  up,  to  the  imminent  peril  of  all  the  pretty 
house-maids.* 

So  intent  were  the  servants  upon  their  sports  that  we  had  to  ring 
repeatedly  before  we  could  make  ourselves  heard.  On  our  arrival 
being  announced,  the  squire  came  out  to  receive  us,  accompanied 
by  his  two  other  sons ;  one  a  young  officer  in  the  army,  home  on 
leave  of  absence;  the  other  an  Oxonian,  just  from  the  university. 
The  squire  was  a  fine,  healthy-looking  old  gentleman,  with  silver  hair 
curling  lightly  round  an  open,  florid  countenance  ;  in  which  the 
physiognomist,  with  the  advantage,  like  myself,  of  a  previous  hint 
or  two,  might  discover  a  singular  mixture  of  whim  and  benevo 
lence. 

The  family  meeting  was  warm  and  affectionate :  as  the  evening 
was  far  advanced,  the  squire  would  not  permit  us  to  change  our 
travelling  dresses,  but  ushered  us  at  once  to  the  company,  which 
was  assembled  in  a  large,  old-fashioned  hall.  It  was  composed  of 
different  branches  of  a  numerous  family  connection,  where  there 
were  the  usual  proportion  of  old  uncles  and  aunts,  comfortable 
married  dames,  superannuated  spinsters,  blooming  country  cousins, 
half-fledged  striplings,  and  bright-eyed  boarding-school  hoydens. 
They  were  variously  occupied ;  some  at  a  round  game  of  cards ; 
others  conversing  around  the  fireplace  ;  at  one  end  of  the  hall  was 
a  group  of  the  young  folks,  some  nearly  grown  up,  others  of  a  more 

*The  mistletoe  is  still  hung  up  in  farmhouses  and  kitchens  at  Christmas ; 
and  the  young  men  have  the  privilege  of  kissing  the  girls  under  it,  plucking 
each  time  a  berry  from  the  bush.  When  the  berries  are  all  plucked,  the  priv£ 
lege  ceases. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  157 


tender  and  budding  age,  fully  engrossed  by  a  nmry  game  ;  and  a 
profusion  of  wooden  horses,  penny  trumpets,  and  tattered  dolls, 
about  the  floor,  showed  traces  of  a  troop  of  little  fairy  beings,  who, 
having  frolicked  through  a  happy  day,  had  been  carried  off  to 
slumber  through  a  peaceful  night. 

While  the  mutual  greetings  were  going  on  between  young  Brace- 
bridge  and  his  relatives,  I  had  time  to  scan  the  apartment.  I  have 
called  it  a  hall,  for  so  it  had  certainly  been  in  old  times,  and  the 
squire  had  evidently  endeavored  to  restore  it  to  something  of  its 
primitive  state.  Over  the  heavy,  projecting  fireplace  was  suspended 
a  picture  of  a  warrior  in  armor,  standing  by  a  white  horse,  asd  on 
the  opposite  wall  hung  a  helmet,  buckler  and  lance.  At  one  end 
an  enormous  pair  of  antlers  were  inserted  in  the  wall,  the  brgj^jies 
serving  as  hooks  on  which  to  suspend  hats,  whips  and  spurs ;  and 
in  the  corners  of  the  apartment  were  fowling-pieces,  fishing-rods, 
and  other  sporting  implements.  The  furniture  was  of  the  cum 
brous  workmanship  of  former  days,  though  some  art^es  of  modern 
convenience  had  been  added,  and  the  oaken  flwr  had  been 
carpeted ;  so  that  the  whole  presented  an  odd  mixture  of  parlor 
and  hall. 

The  grate  had  been  removed  from  the  wide,  overwhelming  fire 
place,  to  make  way  for  a  fire  of  wood,  in  the  midst  of  which  was 
an  enormous  log  glowing  and  blazing,  and  sending  forth  a  vast 
volume  of  light  and  heat :  this  I  understood  was  the  Yule  clog, 
which  the  squire  was  particular  in'  having  brought  in  and  illumined 
on  a  Christmas  eve,  according  to  ancient  custom.* 

It  was  really  delightful  to  see  the  old  squire  seated  in  his  hered 
itary  elbow  chair,  by  the  hospitable  fireside  of  his  ancestors,  and 

*The  Yule  clog  is  a  great  log  of  wood,  sometimes  the  root  of  a  tree,  brought 
Into  the  house  'with  great  ceremony,  on  Christmas  eye,  laid  in  the  fireplace, 
and  lighted  with  the  brand  of  last  year's  clog.  While  it  lasted,  there  was 
great  drinking,  singing  and  telling  of  tales.  Sometimes  it  was  accompanied 
by  Christmas  candles;  but  in  the  cottages  the  only  light  was  from  tlie  ruddy 
blaze  of  the  great  wood  fire.  The  Yule  clog  was  to  burn  all  night;  if.  it  went 
out,  it  was  considered  a  sign  of  ill  luck. 

Derrick  mentions  it  in  one  of  his  songs  :— 

Come,  bring  with  a  noise, 

My  merrie,  merrie  boyes, 
The  Christmas  log  to  the  firing; 

While  my  good  dame,  she 

Bids  ye  all  be  free, 
And  drink  to  your  hearts  desiring. 

The  Yule  clog  is  still  burnt  in  many  farmhouses  and  kitchens  in  England, 
particularly  in  the  north,  and  there  are  several  superstitions  connected  with 
it  among  the  peasantry.  If  a  squinting  person  come  to  the  house  while  it  is 
burning,  or  a  person  barefooted,  it  is  considered  an  ill  omen.  The  brand 
remaining  from  the  Yule  clog  Is  carefully  put  away  to  light  the  next  year's 
Christmas  fire. 


158  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

looking  around  him  like  the  sun  of  a  system,  beaming  warmth  and 
gladness  to  every  heart.  Even  the  very  dog  that  lay  stretched  at 
his  feet,  as  he  lazily  shifted  his  position  and  yawned,  would  look 
fondly  up  in  his  master's  face,  wag  his  tail  against  the  floor,  and 
stretch  himself  again  to  sleep,  confident  of  kindness  and  protection. 
There  is  an  emanation  from  the  heart  in  genuine  hospitality  which 
cannot  be  described,  but  is  immediately  felt,  and  puts  the  stranger 
at  once  at  his  ease.  I  had  not  been  seated  many  minutes  by  the 
comfortable  hearth  of  the  worthy  old  cavalier,  before  I  found 
myself  as  much  at  home  as  if  I  had  been  one  of  the  family. 

Supper  was  announced  shortly  after  our  arrival.  It  was  served 
up  in  a  spacious  oaken  chamber,  the  panels  of  which  shone  with 
wax,  and  around  which  were  several  family  portraits  decorated 
with  holly  and  ivy.  Besides  the  accustomed  lights,  two  great  wax 
tapers,  called  Christmas  candles,  wreathed  with  greens,  were 
placed  on  a  highly-polished  beaufet  among  the  family  plate.  The 
table  was  abundantly  spread  with  substantial  fare  ;  but  the  squire 
made  his  supper  of  frumenty,  a  dish  made  of  wheat  cakes  boiled  in 
milk,  with  rich  spices,  being  a  standing  dish  in  old  times  for 
Christmas  eve. 

I  was  happy  to  find  my  old  friend,  minced  pie,  in  the  retinue  of 
the  feast;  and  finding  him  to,  be  perfectly  orthodox,  and  that  1 
need  not  be  ashamed  of  my  predilection,  I  greeted  him  with  all 
the  warmth  wherewith  we  usually  greet  an  old  and  very  genteel 
acquaintance. 

The  mirth  of  the  company  was  greatly  promoted  by  the  humors 
of  an  eccentric  personage  whom  Mr.  Bracebridge  always  addressed 
with  the  quaint  appellation  of  Master  Simon.  He  was  a  tight,  brisk 
little  man,  with  the  air  of  an  arrant  old  bachelor.  His  nose  was 
shaped  like  the  bill  of  a  parrot ;  his  face  slightly  pitted  with  the 
small-pox,  with  a  dry,  perpetual  bloom  on  it,  like  a  frost-bitten  leaf 
in  autumn.  He  had  an  eye  of  great  quickness  and  vivacity,  with  a 
drollery  and  lurking  waggery  of  expression  that  was  irresistible. 
He  was  evidently  the  wit  of  the  family,  dealing  very  much  in  sly 
jokes  and  inuendoes  with  the  ladies,  and  making  infinite  merriment 
by  harping  upon  old  themes  ;  which,  unfortunately,  my  ignorance 
of  the  family  chronicles  did  not  permit  me  to  enjoy.  It  seemed  to 
be  his  great  delight  during  supper  to  keep  a  young  girl  next  him  in 
a  continual  agony  of  stifled  laughter,  in  spite  of  her  awe  of  the 
reproving  looks  of  her  mother,  who  sat  opposite.  Indeed,  he  was 
the  idol  of  the  younger  part  of  the  company,  who  laughed  at  every 
thing  he  said  or  did,  and  at  every  turn  of  his  countenance,  I  could 
not  wonder  at  it ;  for  he  must  have  been  a  miracle  of  accomplish- 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  159 

ments  in  their  eyes.  He  could  imitate  Punch  and  Judy ;  make  an 
old  woman  of  his  hand,  with  the  assistance  of  a  burnt  cork  and 
pocket-handkerchief ;  and  cut  an  orange  into  such  a  ludicrous  cari 
cature,  that  the  young  folks  were  ready  to  die  with  laughing, 

I  was  let  briefly  into  his  history  by  Frank  Bracebridge.  He  was 
an  old  bachelor,  of  a  small,  independent  income,  which,  by  careful 
management,  was  sufficient  for  all  his  wants.  He  revolved  through 
the  family  system  like  a  vagrant  comet  in  its  orbit;  sometimes 
visiting  one  branch,  and  sometimes  another  quite  remote ;  as  is 
often  the  case  with  gentlemen  of  extensive  connections  and  small 
fortunes  in  England.  He  had  a  chirping,  buoyant  disposition, 
always  enjoying  the  present  moment ;  and  his  frequent  change  of 
scene  and  company  prevented  his  acquiring  those  rusty,  unaccom 
modating  habits,  with  which  old  bachelors  are  so  uncharitably 
charged.  He  was  a  complete  family  chronicle,  being  versed  in  the 
genealogy,  history  and  intermarriages  of  the  whole  house  of  Brace- 
bridge,  which  made  him  a  great  favorite  with  the  old  folks ;  he  was 
a  beau  of  all  the  elder  ladies  and  superannuated  spinsters,  among 
whom  he  was  habitually  considered  rather  a  young  fellow,  and  he 
was  master  of  the  revels  among  the  children  ;  so  that  there  was  not 
a  more  popular  being  in  the  sphere  in  which  he  moved  than  Mr. 
Simon  Bracebridge.  Of  late  years,  he  had  resided  almost  entirely 
with  the  squire,  to  whom  he  had  become  a  factotum,  and  whom  he 
particularly  delighted  by  jumping  with  his  humor  in  respect  to  old 
times,  and  by  having  a  scrap  of  an  old  song  to  suit  every  occasion. 
We  had  presently  a  specimen  of  his  last-mentioned  talent,  for  no 
sooner  was  supper  removed,  and  spiced  wines  and  other  beverages 
peculiar  to  the  season  introduced,  than  Master  Simon  was  called 
en  for  a  good  old  Christmas  song.  He  bethought  himself  for  a 
moment,  and  then,  with  a  sparkle  of  the  eye,  and  a  voice  that  was 
by  no  means  bad,  excepting  that  it  ran  occasionally  into  a  falsetto, 
like  the  notes  of  a  split  reed,  he  quavered  forth  a  quaint  old  ditty 

Now  Christmas  is  come, 

Let  us  beat  up  the  drum, 
And  call  all  our  neighbors  together. 

And  when  they  appear, 

Let  us  make  them  such  cheer, 
As  will  keep  out  the  wind  and  the  weather,  etc. 

The  supper  had  disposed  every  one  to  gayety,  and  an  old  harper 
•was  summoned  from  the  servant's  hall,  where  he  had  been  strum 
ming  all  the  evening,  and  to  all  appearance  comforting  himself 
with  some  of  the  squire's  home-brewed.  He  was  a  kind  pt 


160  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

hanger-on,  I  was  told,  of  the  establishment,  and,  though  ostensibly 
a  resident  of  the  village,  was  oftener  to  be  found  in  the  squire's 
kitchen  than  his  own  home,  the  old  gentleman  being  fond  of  the 
sound  of  "harp  in  hall." 

The  dance,  like  most  dances  after  supper,  was  a  merry  one ; 
some  of  the  older  folks  joined  in  it,  and  the  squire  himself  figured 
down  several  couple  with  a  partner,  with  whom  he  affirmed  he  had 
danced  at  every  Christmas  for  nearly  half  a  century.  Master 
Simon,  who  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  connecting  link  between  the  old 
times  and  the  new,  and  to  be  withal  a  little  antiquated  in  the  taste 
of  his  accomplishments,  evidently  piqued  himself  on  his  dancing, 
and  was  endeavoring  to  gain  credit  by  the  heel  and  toe,  rigadoon, 
and  other  graces  of  the  ancient  school ;  but  he  had  unluckily 
assorted  himself  with  a  little  romping  girl  from  boarding-school, 
who,  by  her  wild  vivacity,  kept  him  continually  on  the  stretch,  and 
defeated  all  his  sober  attempts  at  elegance : — such  are  the  ill- 
assorted  matches  to  which  antique  gentlemen  are  unfortunately 
prone ! 

The  young  Oxonian,  on  the  contrary,  had  led  out  one  of  his 
maiden  aunts,  on  whom  the  rogue  played  a  thousand  little  knav 
eries  with  impunity  :  he  was  full  of  practical  jokes,  and  his  delight 
was  to  tease  his  aunts  and  cousins ;  yet,  like  all  madcap  young- 
sters,  he  was  a  universal  favorite  among  the  women.  The  most 
interesting  couple  in  the  dance  was  the  young  officer  and  a  ward 
of  the  squire's,  a  beautiful,  blushing  giiiof  seventeen.  From  sev 
eral  shy  glances  which  I  had  noticed  in  the  course  of  the  evening, 
I  suspected  there  was  a  little  kindness  growing  up  between  them: 
and,  indeed,  the  young  soldier  was  just  the  hero  to  captivate  a 
romantic  girl.  He  was  tall,  slender  and  handsome,  and,  like 
most  young  British  officers  of  late  years,  had  picked  up  various 
small  accomplishments  on  the  continent — he  could  talk  French  and 
Italian—draw  landscapes,  sing  very  tolerably— dance  divinely ; 
but,  above  all,  he  had  been  wounded  at  Waterloo : — what  girl  of 
seventeen,  well  read  in  poetry  and  romance,  could  resist  such  a 
mirror  of  chivalry  and  perfection ! 

The  moment  the  dance  was  over,  he  caught  up  a  guitar,  and, 
lolling  against  the  old  marble  fireplace,  in  an  attitude  which  1  am 
half  inclined  to  suspect  was  studied,  began  the  little  French  air  of 
the  Troubadour.  The  squire,  however,  exclaimed  against  having 
anything  on  Christmas  eve  but  good  old  English  ;  upon  which  the 
young  minstrel,  casting  up  his  eye  for  a  moment,  as  if  in  an  effort 
of  memory,  struck  into  another  strain,  and,  with  a  charming  air  of 
gallantry,  gave  Herrick's  "  Night-Piece  to 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  161 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee. 
The  shooting  stars  attend  thee, 

And  the  elves  also, 

Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

No  Will  o'  the  Wisp  mislight  thee  ; 
Nor  snake  nor  slow -worm  bite  thee ; 

But  on,  on  thy  way, 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there  is  none  to  affright  th«e. 

Then  let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber ; 
What  though  the  moon  does  slumber, 

The  stars  of  the  night 

Will  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  tapers  clear  without  number. 

Then,  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee, 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me, 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silvery  feet, 
My  soul  I'll  pour  into  thee. 

The  song  might  or  might  not  have  been  intended  in  compliment 
to  the  fair  Julia,  for  so  I  found  his  partner  was  called;  she,  how 
ever,  was  certainly  unconscious  of  any  such  application,  for  she 
aever  looked  at  the  singer,  but  kept  her  eyes  cast  upon  the  floor- 
Her  face  was  suffused,  it  is  true,  with  a  beautiful  blush,  and  there 
was  a  gentle  heaving  of  the  bosom,  but  all  that  was  doubtless 
causec1  by  the  exercise  of  the  dance;  indeed,  so  great  was  her 
indifference,  that  she  amused  herself  with  plucking  to  pieces  a 
choice  bouquet  of  hot-house  flowers,  and  by  the  time  the  song  was 
concluded  the  nosegay  lay  in  ruins  on  the  floor. 

The  party  now  broke  up  for  the  night  with  the  kind-hearted  old 
custom  of  shaking  hands.  As  I  passed  through  the  hall,  on  my 
way  to  my  chamber,  the  dying  embers  of  the  Yule  clog  still  sent 
forth  a  dusky  glow,  and  had  it  not  been  the  season  when  "no spirit 
dares  stir  abroad,"  1  should  have  been  half  tempted  to  steal  from 
my  room  at  midnight,  and  peep  whether  the  fairies  might  not  be 
at  their  revels  about  the  hearth. 

My  chamber  was  in  the  old  part  of  the  mansion,  the  ponderous 
furniture  of  which  might  have  been  fabricated  in  the  days  of  the 
giants.  The  room  was  panelled  with  cornices  of  heavy  carved 
work,  in  which  flowers  and  grotesque  faces  were  strangely  inter 
mingled;  and  a  row  of  black-looking  portraits  stared  mournfully  at 
me  from  the  walls.  The  bed  was  of  rich,  though  faded  damask, 
* 


fa  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

with  a  lofty  tester,  and  stood  in  a  niche  opposite  a  bow  window.  I 
had  scarcely  got  into  bed  when  a  strain  of  music  seemed  to  break 
forth  in  the  air  just  below  the  window.  I  listened,  and  found  it 
proceeded  from  a  band,  which  I  concluded  to  be  the  Waits  from  some 
neighboring  village.  They  went  round  the  house,  playing  under 
the  windows.  I  drew  aside  the  curtains  to  hear  them  more  dis 
tinctly.  The  moonbeams  fell  through  the  upper  part  of  the  case 
ment,  partially  lighting  up  the  antiquated  apartment.  The  sounds, 
as  they  receded,  became  more  soft  and  aerial,  and  seemed  to 
accord  with  the  quiet  and  moonlight.  I  listened  and  listened— they 
became  more  and  more  tender  and  remote,  and,  as  they  gradually 
died  away,  my  head  sunk  upon  the  pillow,  and  I  fell  asleep. 


CHRISTMAS    DAY. 

Dark  and  dull  night,  flie  hence  awayt 
And  give  the  honor  to  this  day 
That  sees  December  turn'd  to  May. 

Why  does  the  chilling  winter's  morne 
Smile  like  a  field  beset  with  corn? 
Or  smell  like  to  a  meade  new-shorne, 
Thus  on  the  sudden?— Come  and  see 
Tiie  cause  why  things  thus  fragrant  be. 

HERRICK. 

WHEN  I  woke  the  next  morning,  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  events 
of  the  preceding  evening  had  been  a  dream,  and  nothing 
but  the  identity  of  the  ancient  chamber  convinced  me  of 
their  reality.     While  I  lay  musing  on  my  pillow,  I  heard  the  sound 
of  little  feet  pattering  outside  of  the  door,  and  a  whispering  consul 
tation.     Presently  a  choir  of  small  voices  chanted   forth  an  old 
Christinas  carol,  the  burden  of  which  was — 

Rejoice,  our  Saviour  he  was  born 
On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning. 

I  rose  softly,  slipt  on  my  clothes,  opened  the  door  suddenly,  and 
beheld  one  of  the  most  beautiful  little  fairy  groups  that  a  painter 
could  imagine.  It  consisted  of  a  boy  and  two  girls,  the  eldest  not 
more  than  six,  and  lovely  as  seraphs.  They  were  going  the  rounds 
of  the  house,  and  singing  at  every  chamber  door ;  but  my  sudden 
appearance  frightened  them  into  mute  bashfulness.  They  remained 
for  a  moment  playing  on  their  lips  with  their  fingers,  and  now  and 
then  stealing  a  shy  glance  from  under  their  eyebrows;  until,  as  if 


CHRISTMAS  DA  Y.  163 

by  one  impulse,  they  scampered  away,  and  as  they  turned  an 
angle  of  the  gallery,  I  heard  them  laughing  in  triumph  at  their 
escape. 

Everything  conspired  to  produce  kind  and  happy  feelings  in  this 
strong-hold  of  old-fashioned  hospitality.  The  window  of  my  cham 
ber  looked  out  upon  what  in  summer  would  have  been  a  beautiful 
landscape.  There  was  a  sloping  lawn,  a  fine  stream  winding  at  the 
foot  of  it,  and  a  track  of  park  beyond,  with  noble  clumps  of  trees, 
and  herds  of  deer.  At  a  distance  was  a  neat  hamlet,  with  the 
smoke  from  the  cottage  chimneys  hanging  over  it ;  and  a  church 
with  its  dark  spire  in  strong  relief  against  the  clear,  cold  sky.  The 
house  was  surrounded  with  evergreens,  according  to  the  English 
custom,  which  would  have  given  almost  an  appearance  of  summer; 
but  the  morning  was  extremely  frosty;  the  light  vapor  of  the  pre 
ceding  evening  had  been  precipitated  by  the  cold,  and  covered 
all  the  trees  and  every  blade  of  grass  with  its  fine  crystallizations. 
The  rays  of  a  bright  morning  sun  had  a  dazzling  effect  among  the 
glittering  foliage.  A  robin,  perched  upon  the  top  of  a  mountain 
ash  that  hung  its  clusters  of  red  berries  just  before  my  window, 
was  basking  himself  in  the  sunshine,  and  piping  a  few  querulous 
notes;  and  a  peacock  was  displaying  all  the  glories  of  his  train,  and 
strutting  with  the  pride  and  gravity  of  a  Spanish  grandee  on  the 
terrace  walk  below. 

I  had  scarcely  dressed  myself,  when  a  servant  appeared  to  invite 
me  to  family  prayers.  He  showed  me  the  way  to  a  small  chapel  in 
the  old  wing  of  the  house,  where  I  found  the  principal  part  of  the 
family  already  assembled  in  a  kind  of  gallery,  furnished  with  cush 
ions,  hassocks  and  large  prayer  books;  the  servants  were  seated  on 
benches  below.  The  old  gentleman  read  prayers  from  a  desk  in 
front  of  the  gallery,  and  Master  Simon  acted  as  clerk,  and  made 
the  responses;  and  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  he  acquit 
ted  himself  with  great  gravity  and  decorum. 

The  service  was  followed  by  a  Christmas  carol,  which  Mr. 
Bracebridge  himself  had  constructed  from  a  poem  of  his  favorite 
author,  Herrick ;  and  it  had  been  adapted  to  an  old  church  melody 
by  Master  Simon.  As  there  were  several  good  voices  among  the 
household,  the  effect  was  extremely  pleasing  ;  but  I  was  particularly 
gratified  by  the  exaltation  of  heart,  and  sudden  sally  of  gratefu? 
feeling,  with  which  the  worthy  squire  delivered  one  stanza ;  his  eye 
glistening,  and  his  voice  rambling  out  of  all  the  bounds  of  time 
and  tune : 

"  'Tis  thou  that  crown'st  my  glittering  hearth 
With  guiltlesse  mirth, 


t6*  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

And  givest  me  Wassaile  bowles  to  drink 

Spiced  to  the  brink : 
Lord,  'tis  thy  plenty-dropping  hand 

That  soiles  my  land  : 
And  giv'st  me  for  my  bushell  sowne, 

Twice  ten  for  one." 

I  afterwards  understood  that  early  morning  service  was  road  on 
every  Sunday  and  saints'  day  throughout  the  year,  either  by  Mr. 
Bracebridge  or  by  some  member  of  the  family.  It  was  once  almost 
universally  the  case  at  the  seats  of  the  nobility  and  gentry  of 
England,  and  it  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  the  custom  is  falling 
into  neglect ;  for  the  dullest  observer  must  be  sensible  of  the  order 
and  serenity  prevalent  in  those  households,  where  the  occasional 
exercise  of  a  beautiful  form  of  worship  in  the  morning  gives,  as  it 
were,  the  key-note  to  every  temper  for  the  day,  and  attunes  every 
spirit  to  harmony. 

Our  breakfast  consisted  of  what  the  squire  denominated  true  old 
English  fare.  He  indulged  in  some  bitter  lamentations  over  rrcdern 
breakfasts  of  tea  and  toast,  which  he  censured  as  among  the  causes 
of  modern  effeminacy  and  weak  nerves,  and  the  decline  of  old 
English  heartiness ;  and  though  he  admitted  them  to  his  table  to 
suit  the  palates  of  his  guests,  yet  there  was  a  brave  display  of  cold 
meats,  wine,  and  ale  on  the  sideboard. 

After  breakfast  I  walked  about  the  grounds  with  Frank  Brace- 
bridge  and  Master  Simon,  or,  Mr.  Simon,  as  he  was  called  by  every 
body  but  the  squire.  We  were  escorted  by  a  number  of  gentle 
manlike  dogs,  that  seemed  loungers  about  the  establishment;  from 
the  frisking  spaniel  to  the  steady  old  stag-hound  ;  the  last  of  which 
was  of  a  race  that  had  been  in  the  family  time  out  of  mind  :  they 
were  all  obedient  to  a  dog -whistle  whick  hung  to  Master  Simon's 
button-hole,  and  in  the  midst  of  their  gambols  would  glance  an 
eye  occasionally  upon  a  small  switch  he  carried  in  his  hand. 

The  old  mansion  had  a  still  more  venerable  look  in  the  yellow 
sunshine  than  by  pale  moonlight ;  and  I  could  not  but  feel  the 
force  of  the  squire's  idea,  that  the  formal  terraces,  heavily  moulded 
balustrades,  and  clipped  yew-trees,  carried  with  them  an  air  of 
proud  aristocracy.  There  appeared  to  be  an  unusual  numr-er  of 
peacocks  about  the  place,  and  I  was  making  some  remarks  upon 
what  I  termed  a  flock  of  them,  that  were  basking  under  a  sunny 
wall,  when  I  was  gently  corrected  in  my  phraseology  by  Master 
Simon,  who  told  me  that,  according  to  the  n.ost  ancient  and 
approved  treatise  on  hunting,  I  must  say  a  muster  of  peacocks. 
"In  the  same  way,"  added  he,  with  a  slight  air  of  pedantry,  "we 


CHRISTMAS  DA  Y.  16$ 

say  a  flight  of  doves  or  swallows,  a  bevy  of  quails,  a  herd  of  deer, 
of  wrens,  or  cranes,,  a  skulk  of  foxes,  or  a  building  of  rooks."  He 
went  on  to  inform  me  that,  according  to  Sir  Anthony  Fitzherbert, 
we  ought  to  ascribe  to  this  bird  "both  understanding  and  glory  ; 
for,  being  praised,  he  will  presently  set  up  his  tail,  chiefly  against 
the  sun,  to  the  intent  you  may  the  better  behold  the  beauty  thereof. 
But  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf,  when  his  tail  falleth,  he  will  mourn  and 
hide  himself  in  corners,  till  his  tail  come  again  as  it  was." 

I  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  display  of  small  erudition  on  so 
whimsical  a  subject ;  but  I  found  that  the  peacocks  were  birds  of 
some  consequence  at  the  hall ;  for  Frank  Bracebridge  informed  me 
that  they  were  great  favorites  with  his  father,  who  was  extremely 
careful  to  keep  up  the  breed ;  partly  because  they  belonged  to 
chivalry,  and  were  in  great  request  at  the  stately  banquets  of  the 
olden  time  ;  and  partly  because  they  had  a  pomp  and  magnificence 
about  them,  highly  becoming  an  old  family  mansion.  Nothing,  he 
was  accustomed  to  say,  had  an  air  of  greater  state  and  dignity  thai 
a  peacock  perched  upon  an  antique  stone  balustrade. 

Master  Simon  had  now  to  hurry  off,  having  an  appointment  at 
the  parish  church  with  the  village  choristers,  who  were  to  perform 
some  music  of  his  selection.  There  was  something  extremely 
agreeable  in  the  cheerful  flow  of  animal  spirits  of  the  little  man  ; 
and  I  confess  I  had  been  somewhat  surprised  at  his  apt  quotations 
from  authors  who  certainly  were  not  in  the  range  of  every-day 
reading.  I  mentioned  this  last  circumstance  to  Frank  Bracebridge, 
who  told  me  with  a  smile  that  Master  Simon's  whole  stock  of  erudi 
tion  was  confined  to  some  half  a  dozen  old  authors,  which  the 
squire  had  put  into  his  hands,  and  which  he  read  over  and  over, 
whenever  he  had  a  studious  fit ;  as  he  sometimes  had  on  a  rainy 
day,  or  a  long,  winter  evening.  Sir  Anthony  Fitzherbert' s  Book  of 
Husbandry  ;  Markham's  Country  Contentments  ;  the  Tretyse  of 
Hunting,  by  Sir  Thomas  Cockayne,  Knight;  Izaac  Walton's  Angler, 
and  two  or  three  more  such  ancient  worthies  of  the  pen,  were  his 
standard  authorities ;  and,  like  all  men  who  know  but  a  few  books, 
he  looked  up  to  them  with  a  kind  of  idolatry,  and  quoted  them  on 
all  occasions.  As  to  his  songs,  they  were  chiefly  picked  out  of  old 
books  in  the  squire's  library,  and  adapted  to  tunes  that  were  popular 
among  the  choice  spirits  of  the  last  century.  His  practical  appli 
cation  of  scraps  of  literature,  however,  had  caused  him  to  be  looked 
upon  as  a  prodigy  of  book  knowledge  by  all  the  grooms,  hunts 
men  and  small  sportsmen  of  the  neighborhood. 

While  we  were  talking  we  heard  the  distant  tolling  of  the  village 
bell,  and  I  was  told  that  the  squire  was  a  little  particular  in  havinj 


166  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

his  household  at  church  on  a  Christmas  morning  ;  considering  it  a 
day  of  pouring  out  of  thanks  and  rejoicing  ;  for,  as  old  Tussei 
observed : 

"At  Christmas  be  merry,  and  thankful  withal, 
And  feast  thy  poor  neighbors,  the  great  with  the  small." 

"  If  you  are  disposed  to  go  to  church,"  said  Frank  Bracebridge, 
"  I  can  promise  you  a  specimen  of  my  cousin  Simon's  musical 
achievements.  As  the  church  is  destitute  of  an  organ,  he  has 
formed  a  band  of  the  village  amateurs,  and  established  a  musical 
club  for  their  improvement ;  he  has  also  started  a  choir,  as  he 
sorted  my  father's  pack  of  hounds,  according  to  the  directions  of 
Jervaise  Markham,  in  his  Country  Contentments ;  for  the  bass  he 
has  sought  out  all  the  «  deep,  solemn  mouths,'  and  for  the  tenor  the 
'  loud-ringing  mouths,'  among  the  country  bumpkins ;  and  for 
•  sweet  mouths,'  he  has  culled  with  curious  taste  among  the 
prettiest  lasses  in  the  neighborhood  ;  though  these  last,  he  affirms, 
are  the  most  difficult  to  keep  in  tune ;  your  pretty  female  singer 
being  exceedingly  wayward  and  capricious,  and  very  liable  to 
accident." 

As  the  morning,  though  frosty,  was  remarkably  fine  and  clear,  the 
most  of  the  family  walked  to  the  church,  which  was  £.  *ery  old 
building  of  gray  stone,  and  stood  near  a  village,  about  half  a  mile 
from  the  park  gate.  Adjoining  it  was  a  low,  snug  parsonage,  which 
seemed  coeval  with  the  church.  The  front  of  it  was  perfectly 
matted  with  a  yew-tree,  that  had  been  trained  against  its  walls, 
through  the  dense  foliage  of  which  apertures  had  been  formed  to 
admit  light  into  the  small,  antique  lattices.  As  we  passed  this 
sheltered  nest,  the  parson  issued  forth  and  preceded  us. 

I  had  expected  to  see  a  sleek,  well-conditioned  pastor,  such  as  is 
often  found  in  a  snug  living  in  the  vicinity  of  a  rich  patron's  tajDie, 
but  I  was  disappointed.  The  parson  was  a  little,  meagre,  black- 
looking  man,  with  a  grizzled  wig  that  was  too  wide,  and  stood  off 
from  each  ear;  so  that  his  head  seemed  to  shrink  away  within  it, 
like  a  dried  filbert  in  its  shell.  He  wore  a  rusty  coat,  with  great 
skirts,  and  pockets  that  would  have  held  the  church  Bible  and 
prayer  book :  and  his  small  legs  seemed  still  smaller,  from  be'^g 
planted  in  large  shoes,  decorated  with  enormous  buckles. 

I  was  informed  by  Frank  Bracebridge,  that  the  parson  had  been 
a  chum  of  his  father's  at  Oxford,  and  had  received  this  living 
shortly  after  the  latter  had  come  to  his  estate.  He  was  a  complete 
black-letter  hunter,  and  would  scarcely  read  a  work  printed  in  the 
Roman  character.  The  editions  of  Caxton  and  Wynkin  de  Worde 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  167 

were  his  delight ;  and  he  was  indefatigable  in  his  researches  after 
such  old  English  writers  as  have  fallen  into  oblivion  from  '.heir 
worthlessness.  In  deference,  perhaps,  to  the  notions  of  Mr. 
Bracebridge,  he  had  made  diligent  investigations  into  the  festive 
rights  and  holiday  customs  of  former  times ;  and  had  been  as 
zealous  in  the  inquiry  as  if  he  had  been  a  boon  companion  ;  but  it 
was  merely  with  that  plodding  spirit  with  which  men  of  adust 
temperament  follow  up  any  track  of  study,  merely  because  it  is 
denominated  learning  ;  indifferent  to  its  intrinsic  nature,  whether  it 
be  the  illustration  of  wisdom,  or  of  the  ribaldry  and  obscenity  of 
antiquity.  He  had  poured  over  these  old  volumes  so  intensely, 
that  they  seemed  to  have  been  reflected  in  his  countenance  ;  which, 
if  the  face  be  indeed  an  index  of  the  mind,  might  be  compared  to 
a  title-page  of  black-letter. 

On  reaching  the  church  porch,  we  found  the  parson  rebuking 
the  gray-headed  sexton  for  having  used  mistletoe  among  the  greens 
with  which  the  church  was  decorated.  It  was,  he  observed,  an 
unholy  plant,  profaned  by  having  been  used  by  the  Druids  in  their 
mystic  ceremonies  ;  and  though  it  might  be  innocently  employed 
in  the  festive  ornamenting  of  halls  and  kitchens,  yet  it  had  been 
deemed  by  the  Fathers  of  the  Church  as  unhallowed,  and  totally 
unfit  for  sacred  purposes.  So  tenacious  was  he  on  this  point,  that 
the  poor  sexton  was  obliged  to  strip  down  a  great  part  of  the 
humble  trophies  of  his  taste,  before  the  parson  would  consent  to 
enter  upon  the  service  of  the  day. 

The  interior  of  the  church  was  venerable  but  simple  ;  on  the 
walls  were  several  mural  monuments  of  the  Bracebridges,  and  just 
beside  the  altar  was  a  tomb  of  ancient  workmanship,  on  which  lay 
the  effigy  of  a  warrior  in  armor,  with  his  legs  crossed,  a  sign  of 
his  having  been  a  crusader,  I  was  told  it  was  one  of  the  family 
who  had  signalized  himself  in  the  Holy  Land,  and  the  same  whose 
picture  hung  over  the  fireplace  in  the  hall. 

During  service,  Master  Simon  stood  up  in  the  pew,  and  repeated 
the  responses  very  audibly;  evincing  that  kind  of  ceremonious 
devotion  punctually  observed  by  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school, 
and  a  man  of  old  family  connections.  I  observed,  too,  that  he 
turned  over  the  leaves  of  a  folio  prayer-book  with  something  of  a 
flourish;  possibly  to  show  off  an  enormous  seal-ring  which  enriched 
one  of  his  fingers,  and  which  had  the  look  of  a  family  relic.  But 
he  was  evidently  most  solicitous  about  the  musical  part  of  the 
service,  keeping  his  eye  fixed  intently  on  the  choir,  and  beating 
time  with  much  gesticulation  and  emphasis. 

Tne  orchestra  was  in  a  small  gallery,  and  presented  a  most 


168  THE  SKETCH-POOK. 

whimsical  grouping  of  heads,  piled  one  above  the  other,  among 
which  I  particularly  noticed  that  of  the  village  tailor,  a  pale  fellow 
with  a  retreating  forehead  and  chin,  who  played  on  the  clarionet, 
and  seemed  to  have  blown  his  face  to  a  point ;  and  there  was 
another,  a  short,  pursy  man,  stooping  and  laboring  at  a  bass-viol,  so 
as  to  show  nothing  but  the  top  of  a  round,  bald  head,  like  the  egg  of 
an  ostrich.  There  were  two  or  three  pretty  faces  among  the  female 
singers,  to  which  the  keen  air  of  a  frosty  morning  had  given  a 
bright,  rosy  tint ;  but  the  gentlemen  choristers  had  evidently  been 
chosen,  like  old  Cremona  riddles,  more  for  tone  than  looks ;  and 
as  several  had  to  sing  from  the  same  book,  there  were  clusterings 
of  odd  physiognomies,  not  unlike  those  groups  of  cherubs  we  some 
times  see  on  country  tombstones. 

The  usual  services  of  the  choir  were  managed  tolerably  well,  the 
vocal  parts  generally  lagging  a  little  behind  the  instrumental,  and 
some  loitering  fiddler  now  and  then  making  up  for  lost  time  by 
travelling  over  a  passage  with  prodigious  celerity,  and  clearing 
more  bars  than  the  keenest  fox-hunter  to  be  in  at  the  death.  Butt 
the  great  trial  was  an  anthem  that  had  been  prepared  and  arranged 
by  Master  Simon,  and  on  which  he  had  founded  great  expectation. 
Uuluckily,  there  was  a  blunder  at  the  very  outset ;  the  musician* 
became  flurried;  Master  Simon  was  in  a  fever  ;  everything  went  on 
lamely  and  irregularly  until  they  came  to  a  chorus  beginning 
"Now  let  us  sing  with  one  accord,"  which  seemed  to  be  a  signal 
for  parting  company :  all  became  discord  and  confusion  ;  eacK 
shifted  for  himself,  and  got  to  the  end  as  well,  or,  rather,  as  soo» 
as  he  could,  excepting  one  old  chorister  in  a  pair  of  horn  spectacles, 
bestriding  and  pinching  a  long,  sonorous  nose  ;  who  happened  t^ 
stand  a  little  apart,  and,  being  wrapped  up  in  his  own  melody, 
kept  on  a  quivering  course,  wriggling  his  head,  ogling  his  book, 
and  winding  all  up  by  a  nasal  solo  of  at  least  three  bars? 
duration. 

The  parson  gave  us  a  most  erudite  sermon  on  the  rites  and 
ceremonies  of  Christinas,  and  the  propriety  of  observing  it  not 
merely  as  a  day  of  thanksgiving,  but  of  rejoicing  ;  supporting  the 
correctness  of  his  opinions  by  the  earliest  usages  of  the  church, 
and  enforcing  them  by  the  authorities  of  Theophilus  of  Cesarea, 
St.  Cyprian,  St.  Chrysostom,  St.  Augustine,  and  a  cloud  more  of 
saints  and  fathers,  from  whom  he  made  copious  quotations.  I  was 
a  little  at  a  loss  to  perceive  the  necessity  of  such  a  mighty  array  01 
forces  to  maintain  a  point  which  no  one  present  seemed  inclined 
to  dispute  ;  but  I  soon  found  that  the  good  man  had  a  legion  of 
ideal  adversaries  to  contend  with  ;  having,  in  the  course  of  his 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  169 

researches  on  the  subject  of  Christmas,  got  completely  embroiled 
in  the  sectarian  controversies  of  the  Revolution,  when  the  Puritans 
made  such  a  fierce  assault  upon  the  ceremonies  of  the  church,  and 
poor  old  Christinas  \vas  driven  out  of  the  land  by  proclamation  of 
Parliament.*  The  worthy  parson  lived  but  with  times  past,  and 
knew  but  little  of  the  present. 

Shut  up  among  worm-eaten  tomes  in  the  retirement  of  his 
antiquated  little  study,  the  pages  of  old  times  were  to  him  as  the 
gazettes  of  the  day  ;  while  the  era  of  the  Revolution  was  mere 
modern  history.  He  forgot  that  nearly  two  centuries  had  elapsed 
since  the  fiery  persecution  of  poor  mince  pie  throughout  the  land  ; 
when  plum  porridge  was  denounced  as  "mere  popery,"  and  roast- 
beef  as  anti-christian ;  and  that  Christmas  had  been  brought  in 
again  triumphantly  with  the  merry  court  of  King  Charles  at  the 
Restoration.  He  kindled  into  warmth  with  the  ardor  of  his"  contest, 
and  the  host  of  imaginary  foes  with  whom  he  had  to  combat ;  he 
had  a  stubborn  conflict  with  old  Prynne  and  two  or  three  other 
forgotten  champions  of  the  Round  Heads,  on  the  subject  of 
Christmas  festivity  ;  and  concluded  by  urging  his  hearers,  in  the 
most  solemn  and  affecting  manner,  to  stand  to  the  traditional  cus 
toms  of  their  fathers,  and  feast  and  make  merry  on  this  joyful 
anniversary  of  the  Church. 

I  have  seldom  known  a  sermon  attended  apparently  with  more 
immediate  effects;  for  on  leaving  the  church  the  congregation 
seemed  one  and  all  possessed  with  the  gayety  of  spirit  so  earnestly 
enjoined  by  their  pastor.  The  elder  folks  gathered  in  knots  in  the 
church-yard,  greeting  and  shaking  hands  ;  and  the  children  ran 
about  crying  Ule  !  Ule  !  and  repeating  some  uncouth  rhymes,! 
which  the  parson,  who  had  joined  us,  informed  me  had  been 
handed  down  from  days  of  yore.  The  villagers  doffed  their 
hats  to  the  squire  as  he  passed,  giving  him  the  good  wishes  of  the 
season  with  every  appearance  of  heartfelt  sincerity,  and  were 
invited  by  him  to  the  hall,  to  take  something  to  keep  out  the  cold 
of  the  weather  ;  and  I  heard  blessings  uttered  by  several  of  the 

*  From  the  il  Flying  Eagle,"  a  small  Gazette,  published  December  24th,  1652 
—"The  house  spent  much  time  this  day  about  the  business  of  the  Navy,  for 
settling  the  affairs  at  sen,  and  before  they  rose,  were  presented  with  a  terrible 
remonstrance  against  Christmas  day,  grounded  upon  divine  Scriptures,  2  Cor. 
v.  16;  1  Cor.  xv.  14,  17:  and  in  honor  of  the  Lord's  Day,  grounded  upon  these 
Scriptures,  John  xx.  1 :  Rev.  i  10:  Psalm  cxviii.  24;  Lev.  xxiii.  7, 11 ;  Mark  xv.  8; 
Psalm  Ixxxiv.  10,  in  which  Christmas  is  called  Anti-christ's  masse,  and  those 
Masse-mongers  and  Papists  who  observe  it,  etc.  In  consequence  of  which 
Parliament  spent  some  time  in  consultation  about  the  abolition  of  Christmas 
day.  passed  orders  to  that  effect,  and  resolved  to  sit  on  the  following  day, 
Which  was  commonly  called  Christmas  day." 
t  "Ule!  Ule! 

Three  puddings  in  a  pule; 

Crack  nuts  and  cry  ule! " 


t7©  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

f*>or,  which  convinced  me  that,  in  the  midst  of  his  enjoyments,  the 
worthy  old  cavalier  had  not  forgotten  the  true  Christmas  virtue  of 
charity. 

On  our  way  homeward  his  heart  seemed  overflowed  with  generous 
and  happy  feelings.  As  we  passed  over  a  rising  ground  which 
commanded  something  of  a  prospect,  the  sounds  of  rustic  merri 
ment  now  and  then  reached  our  ears :  the  squire  paused  for  a  few 
moments,  and  looked  around  with  an  air  of  inexpressible  benignity. 
The  beauty  of  the  aay  was  of  itself  sufficient  to  inspire  philanthropy. 
Notwithstanding  the  frustiness  of  the  morning,  the  sun  in  his  cloud 
less  journey  had  acquired  sufficient  power  to  melt  away  the  thin 
covering  of  snow  from  every  southern  declivity,  and  to  bring  out 
the  living  green  which  adorns  an  English  landscape  even  in  mid 
winter.  Large  tracts  of  smiling  verdure  contrasted  with  the  dazzl 
ing  whiteness  of  the  shadow  slopes  and  hollows.  Every  sheltered 
bank  on  which  the  broad  rays  rested  yielded  its  silver  rill  of  cold 
and  limpid  water,  glittering  through  the  dripping  grass ;  and  sent 
up  slight  exhalations  to  contribute  to  the  thin  haze  that  hung  ,2ist 
above  the  surface  of  the  earth.  There  was  something  truly  cheer 
ing  in  this  triumph  of  warmth  and  verdure  over  the  frosty  thraldom 
of  winter ;  it  was,  as  the  squire  observed,  an  emblem  of  Christmas 
hospitality,  breaking  through  the  chills  of  ceremony  and  selfishness, 
and  thawing  every  heart  into  a  flow.  He  pointed  with  pleasure  to 
the  indications  of  good  cheer  reeking  from  the  chimneys  of  the 
comfortable  farmhouses,  and  low  thatched  cottages.  "  I  love," 
said  he,  "  to  see  this  day  well  kept  by  rich  and  poor ;  it  is  a  great 
thing  to  have  one  day  in  the  year,  at  least,  when  you  are  sure  of 
being  welcome  wherever  you  go,  and  of  having,  as  it  were,  the 
world  all  thrown  open  to  you ;  and  I  am  almost  disposed  to  join 
with  Poor  Robin,  in  his  malediction  on  every  churlish  enemy  to 
this  honest  festival : 

"Those  who  at  Christmas  do  repine 

And  would  fain  hence  dispatch  him, 
May  they  with  old  Duke  Humphry  dine, 
Or  else  may  Squire  Ketch  catch  'em." 

The  squire  went  on  to  lament  the  deplorable  decay  of  the  games 
and  amusements  which  were  once  prevalent  at  this  season  among 
the  lower  orders,  and  countenanced  by  the  higher  ;  when  the  old 
halls  of  the  castles  and  manor-houses  were  thrown  open  at  day 
light  ;  when  the  tables  were  covered  with  brawn,  and  beef,  and 
humming  ale  ;  when  the  harp  and  the  carol  resounded  all  day  long, 
and  when  rich  and  poor  were  alike  welcome  to  enter  and  make 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  i?i 

merry.*  "  Our  old  games  and  local  customs,"  said  he,  "  had  a 
great  effect  in  making  the  peasant  fond  of  his  home,  and  the  pro 
motion  of  them  by  the  gentry  made  him  fond  of  his  lord  They 
made  the  times  merrier,  and  kinder,  and  better,  and  I  can  truly 
say,  with  one  of  our  old  poets : 

•I  like  them  well — the  curious  preciseness 
And  all-pretended  gravity  of  those 
That  seek  to  banish  hence  these  harmless  sports, 
Have  thrust  away  much  ancient  honesty.' 

"The  nation,"  continued  he,  "is  altered;  we  have  almost  lost 
our  simple,  true-hearted  peasantry.  They  have  broken  asunder 
from  the  higher  classes,  and  seem  to  think  their  interests  are  separ 
ate.  They  have  become  too  knowing,  and  begin  to  read  news 
papers,  listen  to  ale-house  politicians,  and  talk  of  reform.  I  think 
one  mode  to  keep  them  in  good  humor  in  these  hard  times  would 
be  for  the  nobility  and  gentry  to  pass  more  time  on  their  estates, 
mingle  more  among  the  country  people,  and  set  the  merry  old 
English  games  going  again." 

Such  was  the  good  squire's  project  for  mitigating  public  discon 
tent:  and,  indeed,  he  had  once  attempted  to  put  his  doctrine  in 
practice,  and  a  few  years  before  had  kept  open  house  during  the 
holidays  in  the  old  style.  The  country  people,  however,  did  not 
understand  how  to  play  their  parts  in  the  scene  of  hospitality  ;  many 
uncouth  circumstances  occurred;  the  manor  was  overrun  by  all  the 
vagrants  of  the  country,  and  more  beggars  drawn  into  the  neighbor 
hood  in  one  week  than  the  parish  officers  could  get  rid  of  in  a  year, 
Since  then,  he  had  contented  himself  with  inviting  the  decent  part 
of  the  neighboring  peasantry  to  call  at  the  hall  on  Christmas  day, 
and  with  distributing  beef,  and  bread,  and  ale,  among  the  poor, 
that  they  might  make  merry  in  their  own  dwellings. 

We  had  not  been  long  home  when  the  sound  of  music  was  heard 
from  a  distance.  A  band  of  country  lads,  without  coats,  their 
shirt  sleeves  fancifully  tied  with  ribbons,  their  hats  decorated  with 
greens,  and  clubs  in  their  hands,  was  seen  advancing  up  the  ave 
nue,  followed  by  a  large  number  of  villagers  and  peasantry.  They 
stopped  before  the  hall  door,  where  the  music  struck  up  a  peculiar 
air,  and  the  lads  performed  a  curious  and  intricate  dance,  advan- 

*"  An  English  gentleman,  at  the  opening  of  the  great  day,  i.  e.  on  Christmas 
flay  in  the  morning,  h;id  all  his  tenants  and  neighbors  enter  his  hall  by  day 
break.  The  strong  beer  was  broached,  and  the  blackjacks  went  plentifully 
about  with  toast,  sugar  and  nutmeg,  and  good  Cheshire  cheese.  The  Hackin 
fthe  great  sausage)  must  be  boiled  by  daybreak,  or  else  two  young  men  must 
take  the  maiden  (i.  e.  the  cook)  by  *he  arms,  and  run  her  round  the  market 
place  till  she  is  shamed  of  her  laziness."— Hound  about  our  Sea-Coal  Fire. 


IT*  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

cing,  retreating,  and  striking  their  clubs  together,  keeping  exact 
time  to  the  music ;  while  one,  whimsically  crowned  with  a  fox's 
skin,  the  tail  of  which  flaunted  down  his  back,  kept  capering  round 
the  skirts  of  the  dance,  and  rattling  a  Christmas  box  with  many 
antic  gesticulations. 

The  squire  eyed  this  fanciful  exhibition  with  great  interest  and 
delight,  and  gave  me  a  full  account  of  its  origin,  which  he  traced 
to  the  times  when  the  Romans  held  possession  of  the  island ; 
plainly  proving  that  this  was  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  sword  dance 
of  the  ancients.  "It  was  now,"  he  said,  "nearly  extinct,  but  he 
had  accidentally  met  with  traces  of  it  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
had  encouraged  its  revival ;  though,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  was  too  apt 
to  be  followed  up  by  the  rough  cudgel  play,  and  broken  heads  in 
the  evening." 

After  the  dance  was  concluded,  the  whole  party  was  entertained 
with  brawn  and  beef,  and  stout  home-brewed.  The  squire  himself 
mingled  among  the  rustics,  and  was  received  with  awkward  dem 
onstrations  of  deference  and  regard.  It  is  true  I  perceived  two  or 
three  of  the  younger  peasants,  as  they  were  raising  their  tankards 
to  their  mouths,  when  the  squire's  back  was  turned,  making  some 
thing  of  a  grimace,  and  giving  each  other  the  wink ;  but  the 
moment  they  caught  my  eye  they  pulled  grave  faces,  and  were 
exceedingly  demure.  With  Master  Simon,  however,  they  all 
seemed  more  at  their  ease.  His  varied  occupations  and  amuse 
ments  had  made  him  well  known  throughout  the  neighborhood. 
He  was  a  visitor  at  every  farmhouse  and  cottage ;  gossiped  with 
the  farmers  and  their  wives ;  romped  with  their  daughters ;  and, 
like  that  type  of  a  vagrant  bachelor,  the  humble-bee,  tolled  the 
sweets  from  all  the  rosy  lips  of  the  country  round. 

The  bashfulness  of  the  guests  soon  gave  way  before  good  cheer 
and  affability.  There  is  something  genuine  and  affectionate  in  the 
gayety  of  the  lower  orders,  when  it  is  excited  by  the  bounty  and 
familiarity  of  those  above  them;  the  warm  glow  of  gratitude  enters 
into  their  mirth,  and  a  kind  word  or  a  small  pleasantry  frankly 
uttered  by  a  patron,  gladdens  the  heart  of  the  dependent  more 
than  oil  and  wine.  When  the  squire  had  retired,  the  merriment 
increased,  and  there  was  much  joking  and  laughter,  particularly 
between  Master  Simon  and  a  hale,  ruddy-faced,  white-headed 
farmer,  who  appeared  to  be  the  wit  of  the  village  ;  for  I  observed 
all  his  companions  to  wait  with  open  mouths  for  his  retorts,  and 
burst  into  a  gratuitous  laugh  before  they  could  well  understand 
them. 

The  whoie  house,  indeed,  seemed  abandoned  to  merriment:  as  I 


CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  173 

passed  to  my  room  to  dress  for  dinner,  I  heard  the  sound  of  music 
in  a  small  court,  and  looking  through  a  window  that  commanded 
it,  I  perceived  a  band  of  wandering  musicians,  with  pandean  pipes 
and  tambourine ;  a  pretty,  coquettish  house-maid  was  dancing  a  jig 
«vith  a  smart  country  lad,  while  several  of  the  other  servants  were 
looking  on.  In  the  midst  of  her  sport  the  girl  caught  a  glimpse  of 
my  face  at  the  window,  and,  coloring  up,  ran  off  with  an  air  of 
roguish  affected  confusion. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER. 

Lo,  now  is  come  our  joyful'st  feast! 

Let  every  man  be  jolly, 
Eache  roome  with  yvie  leaves  is  drest, 

And  every  post  with  holly. 
Now  all  our  neighbours'  chimneys  smoke, 

And  Christmas  blocks  are  burning; 
Their  ovens  they  with  bafk't  meats  choke 
And  all  their  spits  are  turning. 
Without  the  door  let  sorrow  lie, 
And  if,  for  cold,  it  hap  to  die, 
Wee'le  bury't  in  a  Christinas  pye, 
And  evermore  be  merry. 

WITHERS'  JUVENILIA. 

{HAD  finished  my  toilet,  and  was  loitering  with  Frank  Brace, 
bridge  in  the  library,  when  we   heard  a  distant   thwacking 
sound,  which  he  informed  me  was  a  signal  for  the  serving  up 
of  the  dinner.     The  squire  kept  up  old  customs  in  kitchen  as  well 
as  hall;  and  the  rolling-pin,  struck  upon  the  dresser  by  the  cook, 
summoned  the  servants  to  carry  in  the  meats. 

Just  in  this  nick  the  cook  knock*  d  thrice. 
And  all  the  waiters  in  a  thrice 

His  summons  did  obey ; 
Each  serving  man,  with  dish  in  hand, 
March' d  boldly  up,  like  our  train  band, 

Presented,  and  away.* 

The  dinner  was  served  up  in  the  great  hall,  where  the  squire 
always  held  his  Christmas  banquet.  A  blazing,  crackling  fire  of 
logs  had  been  heaped  on  to  warm  the  spacious  apartment,  and  the 
flame  went  sparkling  and  wreathing  up  the  wide-mouthed  chimney. 
The  great  picture  of  the  crusader  and  his  white  horse  had  been 
profusely  decorated  with  greens  for  the  occasion  ;  and  holly  and 
ivy  had  likewise  been  wreathed  round  the  helmet  and  weapons  on 

*  Sir  John  Suckling. 


174  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  opposite  wall,  -which  I  understood  \vere  the  arms  of  ^he  s 
warrior.  I  must  own,  by  the  by,  I  had  strong  doubts  about  the 
authenticity  of  the  painting  and  armor  as  having  belonged  to  the 
crusader,  they  certainly  having  the  stamp  of  more  recent  days; 
but  I  was  told  that  the  painting  had  been  so  considered  time  out  of 
mind ;  and  that,  as  to  the  armor,  it  had  been  found  in  a  lumber- 
room,  and  elevated  to  its  present  situation  by  the  squire,  who  at 
once  determined  it  to  be  the  armor  of  the  family  hero  ;  and  as  he 
was  absolute  authority  on  all  such  subjects  in  his  own  household, 
the  matter  passed  into  current  acceptation.  A  sideboard  was  set 
out  just  under  this  chivalric  trophy,  on  which  was  a  display  of 
plate  that  might  have  vied  (at  least  in  variety)  with  Belshazzar's 
parade  of  the  vessel  of  the  temple  :  "  flagons,  cans,  cups,  beakers, 
goblets,  basins  and  ewers;"  the  gorgeous  utensils  of  good  com 
panionship  that  had  gradually  accumulated  through  many  genera 
tions  of  jovial  housekeepers.  Before  these  stood  the  two  Yule 
candles,  beaming  like  two  stars  of  the  first  magnitude  ;  other  lights 
were  distributed  in  branches,  and  the  whole  array  glittered  like  a 
firmament  of  silver. 

We  were  ushered  into  this  banqueting  scene  with  the  sound  of 
minstrelsy,  the  old  harper  being  seated  on  a  stool  beside  the  fire 
place,  and  twanging  his  instrument  with  a  vast  deal  more  power 
than  melody.  Never  did  Christmas  board  display  a  more  goodly 
and  gracious  assemblage  of  countenances ;  those  who  were  not 
handsome  were  at  least  happy  ;  and  happiness  is  a  rare  improver 
of  your  hard-favored  visage.  I  always  consider  an  old  English 
family  as  well  worth  studying  as  a  collection  of  Holbein's  portraits 
or  Albert  Durer's  prints.  There  is  much  antiquarian  lore  to  be 
acquired  ;  much  knowledge  of  the  physiognomies  of  former  times. 
Perhaps  it  may  be  from  having  continually  before  their  eyes  those 
rows  of  old  family  portraits,  with  which  the  mansions  of  this 
country  are  stocked  ;  certain  it  is,  that  the  quaint  features  of  anti 
quity  are  often  most  faithfully  perpetuated  in  these  ancient  lines; 
and  I  have  traced  an  old  family  nose  through  a  whole  picture 
gallery,  legitimately  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation, 
almost  from  the  time  of  the  Conquest.  Something  of  the  kind  was 
to  be  observed  in  the  worthy  company  around  me.  Many  of  their 
faces  had  evidently  originated  in  a  Gothic  age,  and  been  merely 
copied  by  succeeeding  generations  ;  and  there  was  one  little  girl  in 
particular,  of  staid  demeanor,  with  a  high,  Roman  nose,  and  an 
antique,  vinegar  aspect,  who  was  a  great  favorite  of  the  squire's, 
being,  as  he  said,  a  Bracebridge  all  over,  and  the  very  counterpart 
of  one  of  his  ancestors  who  figured  in  the  court  of  Henry  VIII. 


CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  J7J 

The  parson  said  grace  .which  was  not  a  short  familiar  one,  such  ar 
Is  commonly  addressed  to  the  Deity  in  these  unceremonious  days; 
but  a  long,  courtly,  well-worded  one  of  the  ancient  school.  There 
was  now  a  pause,  as  if  something  was  expected ;  when  suddenly 
the  butler  entered  the  hall  with  some  degree  of  bustle :  he  was 
attended  by  a  servant  on  each  side  with  a  large  wax-light,  and  bore 
a  silver  dish,  on  which  was  an  enormous  pig's  head,  decorated 
with  rosemary,  with  a  lemon  in  its  mouth,  which  was  placed  with 
great  formality  at  the  head  of  the  table.  The  moment  this  pageant 
made  its  appearance,  the  harper  struck  up  a  flourish ;  at  the  con 
clusion  of  which  the  young  Oxonian,  on  receiving  a  hint  from  the 
squire,  gave,  with  an  air  of  the  most  comic  gravity,  an  old  carol, 
the  first  verse  of  which  was  as  follows : 

Caput  apri  defero 

Reddens  laudes  Domino. 
The  boar's  head  in  hand  bring  I, 
With  garlands  gay  and  rosemary. 
I  pray  you  all  synge  merrily 

Qui  estis  in  convivio. 

Though  prepared  to  witness  many  of  these  little  eccentricities, 
from  being  apprised  of  the  peculiar  hobby  of  mine  host ;  yet,  I  con 
fess,  the  parade  with  which  so  odd  a  dish  was  introduced  some* 
what  perplexed  me,  until  I  gathered  from  the  conversation  of  the 
squire  and  the  parson,  that  it  was  meant  to  represent  the  bringing 
in  of  the  boar's  head  ;  a  dish  formerly  served  up  with  much  cere 
mony  and  the  sound  of  minstrelsy  and  song,  at  great  tables,  on 
Christinas  day.  "I  like  the  old  custom,"  said  the  squire,  "not 
merely  because  it  is  stately  and  pleasing  in  itself,  but  because  it  was 
observed  at  the  college  at  Oxford  at  which  I  was  educated.  When 
I  hear  the  old  song  chanted,  it  brings  to  mind  the  time  when  I  was 
young  and  gamesome — and  the  noble  old  college  hall — and  my 
fellow-students  loitering  about  in  their  black  gowns ;  many  of 
whom,  poor  lads,  are  now  in  their  graves!  " 

The  parson,  however,  whose  mind  was  not  haunted  by  such  asso 
ciations,  and  who  was  always  more  taken  up  with  the  text  than  the 
sentiment,  objected  to  the  Oxonian's  version  of  the  carol;  which  he 
affirmed  was  different  from  that  sung  at  college.  He  went  on, 
with  the  dry  perseverance  of  a  commentator,  to  give  the  college 
reading,  accompanied  by  sundry  annotations  ;  addressing  himself 
at  first  to  the  company  at  large ;  but  finding  their  attention  gradu 
ally  diverted  to  other  talk  and  other  objects,  he  lowered  his  tone  as 
his  number  of  auditors  diminished,  until  he  concluded  his  remarks 


1 76  THE  SKETCH'S  O  OK. 

in  an  under  voice,  to  a  fat-headed  old  gentleman  next  him,  whs 
was  silently  engaged  in  the  discussion  of  a  huge  plateful  of  turkey.* 

The  table  was  literally  loaded  with  good  cheer,  and  presented 
an  epitome  of  country  abundance,  in  this  season  of  overflowing 
larders.  A  distinguished  post  was  allotted  to  "  ancient  sirloin,"  as 
mine  host  termed  it ;  being,  as  he  added,  "the  standard  of  old  Eng 
lish  hospitality,  and  a  joint  of  goodly  presence,  and  full  of  expecta 
tion."  There  were  several  dishes  quaintly  decorated,  and  which 
had  evidently  something  traditional  in  their  embellishments ;  but 
about  which,  as  I  did  not  like  to  appear  over-curious,  I  asked  no 
questions. 

I  could  not,  however,  but  notice  a  pie,  magnificently  decorated 
with  peacock's  feathers,  in  imitation  of  the  tail  of  that  bird,  which 
overshadowed  a  considerable  tract  of  the  table.  This,  the  squire 
confessed,  with  some  little  hesitation,  was  a  pheasant  pie,  though  a 
peacock  pie  was  certainly  the  most  authentical ;  but  there  had 
been  such  a  mortality  among  the  peacocks  this  season,  that  he 
could  not  prevail  upon  himself  to  have  one  killed. f 

It  would  be  tedious,  perhaps,  to  my  wiser  readers,  who  may  not 

*  The  old  ceremony  of  serving  up  the  boar's  head  on  Christmas  day  is  still 
observed  in  the  hall  of  Queen's  College,  Oxford.  I  was  favored  by  the  parson 
with  a  copy  of  the  carol  as  now  sung,  and  as  it  may  be  acceptable  to  such  of 
my  readers  as  are  curious  in  these  grave  and  learned  matters,  I  give  it  entire. 

The  boar's  head  in  hand  bear  I, 
Bedeck'd  with  bays  and  rosemary; 


And  I  pray  you,  my  masters,  be  merry 
Quot  estis  in 


convivio. 

Caput  apri  defero, 
Reddens  laudes  domino. 

The  boar's  head  I  understand, 
Is  the  rarest  dish  in  all  this  land, 
Which  thus  bedeck'd  with  a  gay  garland 
Let  us  servire  cantico. 
Caput  apri  defero,  etc. 

Our  steward  hath  provided  this 
In  honor  of  the  King  of  Bliss, 
Which  on  this  day  to  be  served  is 
In  Reginensi  Atrio. 
Caput  apri  defero. 

etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

f  The  peacock  was  anciently  in  great  demand  for  stately  entertainments. 
Sometimes  it  was  made  into  a  pie,  at  one  end  of  which  the  head  appeared 
above  the  crust  in  all  its  plumage,  with  the  beak  richly  gilt ;  at  the  other  end 
the  tail  was  displayed.  Such  pies  were  served  up  at  the  solemn  banquets  of 
chivalry,  when  knights-errant  pledged  themselves  to  undertake  any  perilous 
enterprise,  whence  came  the  ancient  oath,  used  by  Justice  Shallow,  "by  cock 
and  pie." 

The  peacock  was  also  an  important  dish  for  the  Christmas  feast;  and  Mas- 
singer,  in  his  city  Madam,  gives  some  idea  of  the  extravagance  with  which 
this,  as  well  as  other  dishes,  was  prepared  for  the  gorgeous  revels  of  the  olden 
times:— 

Men  may  talk  of  Country  Christmasses, 

Their  thirty  pound  butter'd  eggs,  theii  IMPS  of  carps'  tongues; 
Their  pheasants  drench'd  with  ambergris ;  the  carcases  of  three /at  wetheri 
bruited  for  gravy  to  make  sauce /or  a  swfffo  peacock. 


CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  177 

have  that  foolish  fondness  for  odd  and  obsolete  things  to  which  I 
am  a  little  given,  were  I  to  mention  the  other  make-shifts  of  this 
worthy  old  humorist,  by  which  he  was  endeavoring  to  follow  up, 
though  at  humble  distance,  the  quaint  customs  of  antiquity.  I  was 
pleased,  however,  to  see  the  respect  shown  to  his  whims  by  his 
children  and  relatives ;  who,  indeed,  entered  readily  into  the  full 
spirit  of  them,  and  seemed  all  well  versed  in  their  parts ;  having, 
doubtless,  been  present  at  many  a  rehearsal.  I  was  amused,  too, 
at  the  air  of  profound  gravity  with  which  the  butler  and  other 
servants  executed  the  duties  assigned  them,  however  eccentric. 
They  had  an  old-fashioned  look  ;  having,  for  the  most  part,  been 
brought  up  in  the  household,  and  grown  into  keeping  with  the  anti 
quated  mansion,  and  the  humors  of  its  lord  ;  and  most  probably 
looked  upon  all  his  whimsical  regulations  as  the  established  laws  of 
honorable  housekeeping. 

When  the  cloth  was,  removed,  the  butler  brought  in  a  huge,  silver 
vessel  of  rare  and  curious  workmanship,  which  he  placed  before 
the  squire.  Its  appearance  was  hailed  with  acclamation;  being 
the  Wassail  Bowl,  so  renowned  in  Christmas  festivity.  The  con 
tents  had  been  prepared  by  the  squire  himself ;  for  it  was  a  bever 
age  in  the  skilful  mixture  of  which  he  particularly  prided  himself: 
alleging  that  it  was  too  abstruse  and  complex  for  the  comprehen 
sion  of  an  ordinary  servant.  It  was  a  potatiom,  indeed,  that  might 
well  make  the  heart  of  a  toper  leap  within  him ;  being  composed 
of  the  richest  and  raciest  wines,  highly  spiced  and  sweetened,  with 
roasted  apples  bobbing  about  the  surface.* 

The  old  gentleman's  whole  countenance  beamed  with  a  serene 
look  of  indwelling  delight,  as  he  stirred  this  mighty  bowl.  Having 
raised  it  to  his  lips,  with  a  hearty  wish  of  a  merry  Christmas  to  all 
present,  he  sent  it  brimming  round  the  board,  for  every  one  to  fol 
low  his  example,  according  to  the  primitive  style ;  pronouncing 
it  "the  ancient  fountain  of  good  feeling,  where  all  hearts  met 
together."! 

*  The  Wassail  Bowl  was  sometimes  composed  of  ale  instead  of  wine ;  with 
nutmeg,  sugar,  toast,  ginger,  and  roasted  crabs ;  in  this  way  the  nut-brown 
beverage  is  still  prepared  in  some  old  families,  and  round  the  hearths  of  sub 
stantial  farmers  at  Christmas.  It  is  also  called  Lamb's  Wool,  and  is  celebrated 
by  Herrick  in  his  Twelfth  Night: 

Next  crowne  the  bowle  full 

With  gentle  Lamb's  Wool ; 
Add  sugar,  nutmeg,  and  ginger 

With  store  of  ale  too ; 

And  thus  ye  must  doe 
To  make  the  Wassaile  a  swinger. 

f-  "  The  custom  of  drinking  out  of  the  same  cup  gave  place  to  each  having 
his  cup.  When  the  steward  came  to  the  doore  witli  the  Wassel,  he  was  to  cry 
three  times,  Wassel,  Wassel,  Wassel,  and  then  the  chappell  (chaplein)  was  to 
Answer  with  a  song."—  ARCH^EOLOGIA. 


178  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

There  was  much  laughing  and  rallying  as  the  honest  emblem  of 
Christmas  joviality  circulated,  and  was  kissed  rather  coyly  by  the 
ladies.  When  it  reached  Master  Simon,  he  raised  it  in  both  hands, 
and  with  the  air  of  a  boon  companion  struck  up  an  old  WassaLi 
chanson. 

The  brown  bowle, 

The  merry  brown  bowle, 

As  it  goes  round  about-a 

Still, 

Let  the  world  say  what  it  will, 
And  drink  your  fill  all  out- a. 

The  deep  canne, 

The  merry  deep  canne, 

As  thou  dost  freely  quaff-a, 

Sing 

Fling, 

Be  as  merry  as  a  king, 
And  sound  a  lusty  laugh-a.* 

Much  of  the  conversation  during  dinner  turned  upon  family  top 
ics,  to  which  I  was  a  stranger.  There  was,  however,  a  great  deal 
of  rallying  of  Master  Simon  about  some  gay  widow,  with  whom  he 
was  accused  of  having  a  flirtation.  This  attack  was  commenced 
by  the  ladies  ;  but  it  was  continued  throughout  the  dinner  by  the 
fat-headed  old  gentleman  next  the  parson,  with  the  persevering 
assiduity  of  a  slow  hound  ;  being  one  of  those  long-winded  jokers, 
who,  though  rather  dull  at  starting  game,  are  unrivalled  for  their 
talents  in  hunting  it  down.  At  every  pause  in  the  general  conver 
sation,  he  renewed  his  bantering  in  pretty  much  the  same  terms; 
winking  hard  at  me  with  both  eyes,  whenever  he  gave  Master 
Simon  what  he  considered  a  home  thrust.  The  latter,  indeed, 
seemed  fond  of  being  teased  on  the  subject,  as  old  bachelors  are 
apt  to  be;  and  he  took  occasion  to  inform  me,  in  an  under  tone, 
that  the  lady  in  question  was  a  prodigiously  fine  woman,  and  drove 
her  own  curricle. 

The  dinner-time  passed  away  in  this  flow  of  innocent  hilarity, 
and,  though  the  old  hall  may  have  resounded  in  its  time  with  many 
a  scene  of  broader  rout  and  revel,  yet  I  doubt  whether  it  ever  wit 
nessed  more  honest  and  genuine  enjoyment.  How  easy  it  is  for 
one  benevolent  being  to  diffuse  pleasure  around  him ;  and  how 
truly  is  a  kind  heart  a  fountain  of  gladness,  making  everything  in 
its  vicinity  to  freshen  into  smiles !  the  joyous  disposition  of  the 
*  From  Poor  Kobin'i  Almanac. 


CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  179 

worthy  squire  was  perfectly  contagious ;  he  was  happy  himself, 
and  disposed  to  make  all  the  world  happy;  and  the  little  eccen 
tricities  of  his  humor  did  but  season,  in  a  manner,  the  sweetness  of 
his  philanthropy. 

When  the  ladies  had  retired,  the  conversation,  as  usual,  became 
still  more  animated;  many  good  things  were  broached  which  had 
been  thought  of  during  dinner,  but  which  would  not  exactly  do  for 
a  lady's  ear;  and  though  I  cannot  positively  affirm  that  there  was 
much  wit  uttered,  yet  I  have  certainly  heard  many  contests  of  rare 
wit  produce  much  less  laughter.  ^Wit,  after  all,  is  a  mighty  tart, 
pungent  ingredient,  and  much  too  acid  for  some  stomachs;  but 
honest  good  humor  is  the  oil  and  wine  of  a  merry  meeting,  and 
there  is  no  jovial  companionship  equal  to  that  where  the  jokes  are 
rather  small,  and  the  laughter  abundant. 

The  squire  told  several  long  stories  of  early  college  pranks  and 
adventures,  in  some  of  which  the  parson  had  been  a  sharer;  though 
in  looking  at  the  latter,  it  required  some  effort  of  imagination  to 
figure  such  a  little  dark  anatomy  of  a  man  into  the  perpetrator  of  a 
madcap  gambol.  Indeed,  the  two  college  chums  presented  pictures 
of  what  men  may  be  made  by  their  different  lots  in  life.  The 
squire  had  left  the  university  to  live  lustily  on  his  paternal  domains, 
in  the  vigorous  enjoyment  of  prosperity  and  sunshine,  and  had 
flourished  on  to  a  hearty  and  florid  old  age ;  whilst  the  poor  parson, 
on  the  contrary,  had  dried  and  withered  away,  among  dusty  tomes, 
in  the  silence  and  shadows  of  his  study.  Still  there  seemed  to  be  a 
spark  of  almost  extinguished  fire,  feebly  glimmering  in  the  bottom 
of  his  soul ;  and  as  the  squire  hinted  at  a  sly  story  of  the  parson 
and  a  pretty  milkmaid,  whom  they  once  met  on  the  banks  of  the 
Isis,  the  old  gentleman  made  an  "alphabet  of  faces,"  which,  as 
far  as  I  could  decipher  his  physiognomy,  I  verily  believe  was 
indicative  of  laughter; — indeed,  I  have  rarely  met  with  an  old 
gentleman  that  took  absolute  offence  at  the  imputed  gallantries  of 
his  youth. 

I  found  the  tide  of  wine  and  wassail  fast  gaining  on  the  dry  land 
of  sober  judgment.  The  company  grew  merrier  and  louder  as 
their  jokes  grew  duller.  Master  Simon  was  in  as  chirping  a  humor 
as  a  grasshopper  filled  with  dew;  his  old  songs  grew  of  a  warmer 
complexion,  and  he  began  to  talk  maudlin  about  the  widow.  He 
even  gave  a  long  song  about  the  wooing  of  a  widow,  which  he 
informed  me  he  had  gathered  from  an  excellent  black-letter  work, 
entitled  "Cupid's  Solicitor  for  Love,"  containing  store  of  good 
advice  for  bachelors,  and  which  he  promised  to  lend  me :  the  first 
verse  was  to  this  effect; 


i8o  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

He  that  will  woo  a  widow  must  not  dally, 
He  must  make  hay  while  the  sun  doth  shine ; 

He  must  not  stand  with  her,  shall  I,  shall  I, 
But  boldly  say,  Widow,  thou  must  be  mine. 

This  song  inspired  the  fat-headed  old  gentleman,  who  made 
several  attempts  to  tell  a  rather  broad  story  out  of  Joe  Miller,  that 
was  pat  to  the  purpose ;  but  he  always  stuck  in  the  middle,  every 
body  recollecting  the  latter  part  excepting  himself.  The  parson, 
too,  began  to  show  the  effects  of  good  cheer,  having  gradually 
settled  down  into  a  doze,  and  his  wig  s'tting  most  suspiciously  on 
one  side.  Just  at  this  juncture  we  were  summoned  to  the  drawing- 
room,  and,  I  suspect,  at  the  private  instigation  of  mine  host,  whose 
joviality  seemed  always  tempered  with  a  proper  love  of  decorum. 

After  the  dinner  table  was  removed,  the  hall  was  given  up  to  the 
younger  members  of  the  family,  who,  prompted  to  all  kind  of  noisy 
mirth  by  the  Oxonian  and  Master  Simon,  made  its  old  walls  ring 
with  their  merriment,  as  they  played  at  romping  games.  I  delight 
in  witnessing  the  gambols  of  children,  and  particularly  at  this  happy 
holiday  season,  and  could  not  help  stealing  out  of  the  drawing-room 
on  hearing  one  of  their  peals  of  laughter.  I  found  them  at  the 
game  of  blind-man's-buff.  Master  Simon,  who  was  the  leader  of 
their  revels,  and  seemed  on  all  occasions  to  fulfil  the  office  of  that 
ancient  potentate,  the  Lord  of  Misrule,*  was  blinded  in  the  midst 
of  the  hall.  The  little  beings  were  as  busy  about  him  as  the  mock 
fairies  about  FalstafF;  pinching  him,  plucking  at  the  skirts  of  his 
coat,  and  tickling  him  with  straws.  One  fine,  blue-eyed  girl  of 
about  thirteen,  with  her  flaxen  hair  all  in  beautiful  confusion,  her 
frolic  face  in  a  glow,  her  frock  half  torn  off  her  shoulders,  a 
complete  picture  of  a  romp,  was  the  chief  tormentor;  and,  from  the 
slyness  with  which  Master  Simon  avoided  the  smaller  game,  and 
hemmed  this  wild  little  nymph  in  corners,  and  obliged  her  to  jump 
shrieking  over  chairs,  I  suspected  the  rogue  of  being  not  a  whit 
more  blinded  than  was  convenient. 

When  I  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  I  found  the  company 
seated  round  the  fire,  listening  to  the  parson,  who  was  deeply 
ensconced  in  a  high-backed,  oaken  chair,  the  work  of  some  cunning 
artificer  of  yore,  which  had  been  brought  from  the  library  for  his 
particular  accommodation.  From  this  venerable  piece  of  furni 
ture,  with  which  his  shadowy  figure  and  dark,  weazen  face  so 
admirably  accorded,  he  was  dealing  out  strange  accounts  of  the 

*  At  Christmasse  there  was  in  the  King's  house,  wheresoever  hee  was  lodged, 
a  lorde  of  misrule,  or  mayster  of  merie  disportes,  and  the  like  had  ye  in  the 
house  of  every  nobleman  of  honor,  or  good  worshippe,  were  he  spirituall  or 
temporall.-SioWB, 


CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  181 

popular  superstitions  and  legends  of  the  surrounding  country,  with 
which  he  had  become  acquainted  in  the  course  of  his  antiquarian 
researches.  I  am  half  inclined  to  think  that  the  old  gentleman 
was  himself  somewhat  tinctured  with  superstition,  as  men  are  very 
apt  to  be  who  live  a  recluse  and  studious  life  in  a  sequestered  part 
of  the  country,  and  pore  over  black-letter  tracts,  so  often  filled 
with  the  marvellous  and  supernatural.  He  gave  us  several  anec 
dotes  of  the  fancies  of  the  neighboring  peasantry,  concerning  the 
effigy  of  the  crusader,  which  lay  on  the,  tomb  by  the  church  altar. 
As  it  was  the  only  monument  of  the  kind  in  that  part  of  the  coun 
try,  it  had  always  been  regarded  with  feelings  of  superstition  by 
the  good  wives  of  the  village.  It  was  said  to  get  up  from  the  tomb 
and  walk  the  rounds  of  the  church-yard  in  stormy  nights,  particu 
larly  when  it  thundered;  and  one  old  woman,  whose  cottage  bor 
dered  on  the  church-yard,  had  seen  it  through  the  windows  of  the 
church,  when  the  moon  shone,  slowly  pacing  up  and  down  the 
aisles.  It  was  the  belief  that  some  wrong  had  been  left  unredressed 
by  the  deceased,  or  some  treasure  hidden,  which  kept  the  spirit  in 
a  state  of  trouble  and  restlessness.  Some  talked  of  gold  and 
jewels  buried  in  the  tomb,  over  which  the  spectre  kept  watch;  and 
there  was  a  story  current  of  a  sexton  in  old  times,  who  endeavored 
to  break  his  way  to  the  coffin  at  night,  but,  just  as  he  reached  it, 
received  a  violent  blow  from  the  marble  hand  of  the  effigy,  which 
stretched  him  senseless  on  the  pavement.  These  tales  were  often 
laughed  at  by  some  of  the  sturdier  among  the  rustics,  yet,  when 
night  came  on,  there  were  many  of  the  stoutest  unbelievers  that 
were  shy  of  venturing  alone  in  the  footpath  that  led  across  the 
church-yard. 

From  these  and  other  anecdotes  that  followed,  the  crusader 
appeared  to  be  the  favorite  hero  of  ghost  stories  throughout  the 
vicinity.  His  picture,  which  hung  up  in  the  hall,  was  thought  by 
the  servants  to  have  something  supernatural  about  U  ;  for  they 
remarked  that,  in  whatever  part  of  the  hall  you  went,  the  eyes  of 
the  warrior  were  still  fixed  on  you.  The  old  porter's  wife,  too,  at 
the  lodge,  who  had  been  born  and  brought  up  in  the  family,  and 
was  a  great  gossip  among  the  maid  servants,  affirmed  that  in  her 
young  days  she  had  often  heard  say,  that  on  Midsummer  eve, 
when  it  was  well  known  all  kinds  of  ghosts,  goblins,  and  fairies 
become  visible  and  walk  abroad,  the  crusader  used  to  mount  his 
horse,  come  down  from  his  picture,  ride  about  the  house,  down  the 
avenue,  and  so  to  the  church  to  visit  the  tomb  ;  on  which  occasion 
the  churclf  door  most  civilly  swung  open  of  itself ;  not  that  he 
needed  it ;  for  he  rode  through  closed  gates  and  even  stone  walls, 


t82  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and  had  been  seen  by  one  of  the  dairy  maids  to  pass  between  tWQ 
bars  of  the  great  park  gate,  making  himself  as  thin  as  a  shest  ol 
paper. 

All  these  superstitions  I  found  had  been  very  much  countenanced 
by  the  squire,  who,  though  not  superstitious  himself,  was  very  fond 
of  seeing  others  so.  He  listened  to  every  goblin  tale  of  the 
neighboring  gossips  with  infinite  giavity,  and  held  the  porter's  wife 
in  high  favor  on  account  of  her  talent  for  the  marvellous.  He  was 
himself  a  great  reader  of  old  legends  and  romances,  and  often 
lamented  that  he  could  not  believe  in  them  ;  for  a  superOious 
person,  he  thought,  must  live  in  a  kind  of  fairy  land. 

Whilst  we  were  all  attention  to  the  parson's  stories,  our  ears 
were  suddenly  assailed  by  a  burst  of  heterogeneous  sounds  from 
•Jie  hall,  in  which  were  mingled  something  like  the  clang  of  rude 
jninistrelsy,  with  the  uproar  of  many  small  voices  and  girlish 
laughter.  The  door  suddenly  flew  open,  and  a  train  came  trooping 
into  the  room,  that  might  almost  have  been  mistaken  for  the  break 
ing  up  of  the  court  of  Fairy.  That  indefatigable  spirit,  Master 
Simon,  in  the  faithful  discharge  of  his  duties  as  lord  of  misrule, 
had  conceived  the  idea  of  a  Christmas  mummery  or  masking  ;  and 
having  called  in  to  his  assistance  the  Oxonian  and  the  young  officer, 
who  were  equally  ripe  for  anything  that  should  occasion  romping 
and  merriment,  they  had  carried  it  into  instant  effect.  The  old 
housekeeper  had  been  consulted  ;  the  antique  clothes-presses  and 
wardrobes  rummaged,  and  made  to  yield  up  the  relics  of  finery 
that  had  not  seen  the  light  for  several  generations  ;  the  younger 
part  of  the  company  had  been  privately  convened  from  the  parlor 
and  hall,  and  the  whole  had  been  bedizened  out  into  burlesque 
imitations  of  an  antique  mask.* 

Master  Simon  led  the  van,  as  "Ancient  Christmas,"  quaintly 
apparelled  in  ruff,  a  short  cloak,  which  had  very  much  the  aspect 
of  one  of  the  old  housekeeper's  petticoats,  and  a  hat  that  might  have 
served  for  a  village  steeple,  and  must  indubitably  have  figured  in 
the  days  of  the  Covenanters.  From  under  this  his  nose  curved 
boldly  forth,  flushed  with  a  frost-bitten  bloom,  that  seemed  the  very 
trophy  of  a  December  blast.  He  was  accompanied  by  the  blue- 
eyed  romp,  dished  up  as  "Dame  Mince  Pie,"  in  the  venerable 
magnificence  of  a  faded  brocade,  long  stomacher,  peaked  hat,  and 
high-heeled  shoes.  The  young  officer  appeared  as  Robin  Hood, 


*  Masking*  or  mummeries  were  favorite  sports  at  Christmas  in  old  times, 
and  the  wardrobes  at  halls  and  manor-houses  were  often  laid  under  contribu 
tion  to  furnish  dresses  and  fantastic  disguislngs.  I  strongly  suspect  Master 
•lmo»  to  have  taken  the  idea  of  his  from  Ben  Johnson's  Masque  of  Chri»tr"»«». 


CHklSTMAS  DINNER.  F&3 

in  a  sporting  dress  of  Kendal  green,  and  a  foraging  cap  with  a  gold 

tassel. 

The  costume,  to  be  sure,  did  not  bear  testimony  to  deep  research, 
and  there  was  an  evident  eye  to  the  picturesque,  natural  to  a  young 
gallant  in  the  presence  of  his  mistress.  The  fair  Julia  hung  on  his 
arm  in  a  pretty  rustic  dress,  as  "Maid  Marion."  The  rest  of  the 
train  had  been  metamorphosed  in  various  ways;  the  girl  strussed  up 
in  the  finery  of  the  ancient  belles  of  the  Bracebridge  line,  and  the 
striplings  bewhiskered  with  burnt  cork,  and  gravely  clad  in  broad 
skirts,  hanging  sleeves,  and  full-bottomed  wigs,  to  represent  the 
character  of  Roast  Beef,  Plum  Pudding,  and  other  worthies  cele 
brated  in  ancient  maskings.  The  whole  was  under  the  control  of 
the  Oxonian,  in  the  appropriate  character  of  Misrule ;  and  I 
observed  that  he  exercised  rather  a  mischievous  sway  with  his  wand 
over  the  smaller  personages  of  the  pageant. 

The  irruption  of  this  motley  crew,  with  beat  of  drum,  according 
to  ancient  custom,  was  the  consummation  of  uproar  and  merriment. 
Master  Simon  covered  himself  with  glory  by  the  stateliness  with 
which,  as  Ancient  Christmas,  he  walked  a  minuet  with  the  peerless, 
though  giggling,  Dame  Mince  Pie.  It  was  followed  by  a  dance  of 
all  the  characters,  which  from  its  medley  of  costumes,  seemed  as 
though  the  old  family  portraits  had  skipped  down  from  their  frames 
to  join  in  the  sport.  Different  centuries  were  figuring  at  cross 
hands  and  right  and  left ;  the  dark  ages  were  cutting  pirouettes 
and  rigadoons  ;  and  the  days  of  Queen  Bess  jigging  merrily  down 
the  middle,  through  a  line  of  succeeding  generations. 

The  worthy  squire  contemplated  these  fantastic  sports,  and  this 
resurrection  of  his  old  wardrobe,  with  the  simple  relish  of  childish 
delight.  He  stood  chuckling  and  rubbing  his  hands,  and  scarcely 
hearing  a  word  the  parson  said,  notwithstanding  that  the  latter  was 
discoursing  most  authentically  on  the  ancient  and  stately  dance  at 
the  Paon,  or  peacock,  from  which  he  conceived  the  minuet 
to  be  derived.*  For  my  part,  I  was  in  a  continual  excitement 
from  the  varied  scenes  of  whim  and  innocent  gayety  passing 
before  me.  It  was  inspiring  to  see  wild-eyed  frolic  and  warm 
hearted  hospitality  breaking  out  from  among  the  chills  and  glooir.s 
of  winter,  and  old  age  throwing  off  his  apathy,  and  catching  once 
more  the  freshness  of  youthful  enjoyment.  I  felt  also  an  interest 
in  the  scene,  from  the  consideration  that  these  fleeting  customs 

*  Sir  John  Hawkins,  speaking  of  the  dance  called  Pavon,  from  pavo,  a  pea 
cock,  says,  "It  is  a  grave  ana  majestic  dance;  the  method  or  dancing  it 
anciently  was  by  gentlemen  dressed  with  caps  and  swords,  by  those  of  the 
long  robe  in  their  gowns,  by  the  peers  in  their  mantles,  and  by  the  ladies  in 
gowns  with  long  trains,  the  motion  whereof,  in  dancing,  resembled  that  of  a 
peacock."— History  of  Music.  ., 


1&4  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

were  posting  fast  into  oblivion,  and  that  this  was,  perhaps,  the  only 
family  in  England  in  which  the  whole  of  them  was  still  punc 
tiliously  observed.  There  was  a  quaintness,  too,  mingled  with  all 
this  revelry,  that  gave  it  a  peculiar  zest :  it  was  suited  to  the  time 
and  place ;  and  as  the  old  manor-house  almost  reeled  with  mirth 
and  wassail,  it  seemed  echoing  back  the  joviality  of  long  departed 
years.* 

But  enough  of  Christmas  and  its  gambols  ;  it  is  time  for  me  to 
pause  in  this  garrulity.  Methinks  I  hear  the  questions  asked  by 
my  graver  readers,  "To  what  purpose  is  all  this — how  is  the  world 
to  be  made  wiser  by  this  talk  ?  "  Alas  !  is  there  not  wisdom  enough 
extant  for  the  instruction  of  the  world  ?  And  if  not,  are  there  not 
thousands  of  abler  pens  laboring  for  its  improvement?  It  is  so 
much  pleasanter  to  please  than  to  instruct — to  play  the  companion 
rather  than  the  preceptor. 

What,  after  all,  is  the  mite  of  wisdom  that  I  could  throw  into  the 
mass  of  knowledge ;  or  how  am  I  sure  that  my  sagest  deductions 
may  be  safe  guides  for  the  opinions  of  others  ?  But  in  writing  to 
amuse,  if  I  fail,  the  only  evil  is  in  my  own  disappointment.  If, 
however,  I  can  by  any  lucky  chance,  in  these  days  of  evil,  rub  out 
one  wrinkle  from  the  brow  of  care,  or  beguile  the  heavy  heart  of 
one  moment  of  sorrow ;  if  I  can  now  and  then  penetrate  through 
the  gathering  film  of  misanthropy,  prompt  a  benevolent  vieAv  of 
human  nature,  and  make  my  reader  more  in  good  humor  with  his 
fellow  beings  and  himself,  surely,  surely,  I  shall  not  then  have 
written  entirely  in  vain. 


LONDON  ANTIQUES. 

1  do  walk 

Methinks  like  Guide  Vaux,  with  my  dark  lanthorn 
Stealing  to  set  the  town  o'  fire ;  i'  th'  country 
I  should  be  taken  for  William  o'  the  Wisp, 
Or  Eobin  Gcndfellow. 

FLETCHER. 

I  AM  somewhat  of  an  antiquity  hunter,  and  am  fond  of  exploring 
London  in  quest  of  the  relics  of  old  times.     These  are  princi 
pally  to  be  found  in  the  depths  of  the  city,  swallowed  up  and 
almost  lost  in   a  wilderness   of  brick   and   mortar ;   but  deriving 

*  At  the  time  of  the  first  publication  of  this  paper,  the  picture  of  an  old- 
fashioned  Christmas  in  the  country  was  pronounced  by  some  as  out  of  date. 
The  author  had  afterwards  an  opportunity  of  witnessing  almost  all  the  customs 
above  described,  existing  in  unexpected  vigor  in  the  skirts  of  Derbyshire  and 
Yorkshire,  where  he  passed  the  Christinas  holidays.  The  reader  wil>  flnd some 
notice  of  them  in  the  author's  account  of  his  sojourn  at  Newstead  >bbey. 


LONDON  ANTIQUES.  18$ 

poetical  and  romantic  interest  from  the  commonplace,  prosaic  world 
around  them.  I  was  struck  with  an  instance  of  the  kind  in  the  course 
of  a  recent  summer  ramble  into  the  city  ;  for  the  city  is  only  to  be  ex 
plored  to  advantage  in  summer  time,  when  free  from  the  smoke  and 
fog,  and  rain  and  mud  of  winter.  I  had  been  buffeting  for  some 
time  against  the  current  of  population  setting  through  Fleet  street. 
The  warm  weather  had  unstrung  my  nerves,  and  made  me  sensi 
tive  to  every  jar  and  jostle  and  discordant  sound.  The  flesh  was 
weary,  the  spirit  faint,  and  I  was  getting  out  of  humor  with  the 
bustling,  busy  throng  through  which  I  had  to  struggle,  when  in  a 
fit  of  desperation  I  tore  my  way  through  the  crowd,  plunged  into  a 
by  lane,  and  after  passing  through  several  obscure  nooks  and 
angles,  emerged  into  a  quaint  and  quiet  court  with  a  grass-plot  in 
the  centre,  overhung  by  elms,  and  kept  perpetually  fresh  and  green 
by  a  fountain  with  its  sparkling  jet  of  water.  A  student  with  book 
in  hand  was  seated  on  a  stone  bench,  partly  reading,  partly  medi 
tating  on  the  movements  of  two  or  three  trim  nursery  maids  with 
their  infant  charges. 

I  was  like  an  Arab  who  had  suddenly  come  upon  an  oasis  amid 
the  panting  sterility  of  the  desert.  By  degrees  the  quiet  and  cool 
ness  of  the  place  soothed  my  nerves  and  refreshed  my  spirit.  I 
pursued  my  walk,  and  came,  hard  by,  to  a  very  ancient  chapel, 
with  a  low-browed  Saxon  portal  of  massive  and  rich  architecture. 
The  interior  was  circular  and  lofty,  and  lighted  from  above. 
Around  were  monumental  tombs  of  ancient  date,  on  which  were 
extended  the  marble  effigies  of  warriors  in  armor.  Some  had  the 
hands  devoutly  crossed  upon  the  breast ;  others  grasped  the  pom 
mel  of  the  sword,  menacing  hostility  even  in  the  tomb  ! — while  the 
crossed  legs  of  several  indicated  soldiers  of  the  Faith  who  had 
been  on  crusades  to  the  Holy  Land. 

I  was,  in  fact,  in  the  chapel  of  the  Knights  Templars,  strangely 
situated  in  the  very  centre  of  sordid  traffic  ;  and  I  do  not  know 
a  more  impressive  lesson  for  the  man  of  the  world  than  thus  sud 
denly  to  turn  aside  from  the  highway  of  busy,  money-seeking  life 
and  sit  down  among  these  shadowy  sepulchres,  where  all  is  twi 
light,  dust,  and  forgetfulness. 

In  a  subsequent  tour  of  observation,  I  encountered  another  of 
these  relics  of  a  "foregone  world"  locked  up  in  the  heart  of  the 
city.  I  had  been  wandering  for  some  time  through  dull  monoton 
ous  streets,  destitute  of  anything  to  strike  the  eye  or  excite  the 
imagination,  when  I  beheld  before  me  a  Gothic  gateway  of  moulder 
ing  antiquity.  It  opened  into  a  spacious  quadrangle  forming  the 


1 86  THE  SKETCH- B  O  OK. 

(»ourt-yard  of  a  stately  Gothic  pile,  the  portal  of  which  stood  invit 
ingly  open. 

It  was  apparently  a  public  edifice,  and  as  I  was  antiquity  hunting, 
I  ventured  in,  though  with  dubious  steps.  Meeting  no  one  either 
to  oppose  or  rebuke  my  intrusion,  I  continued  on  until  I  found 
myself  in  a  great  hall,  with  a  lofty,  arched  roof  and  oaken  gallery, 
all  of  Gothic  architecture.  At  one  end  of  the  hall  was  an  enor 
mous  fireplace,  with  wooden  settles  on  each  side  ;  at  the  other  end 
was  a  raised  platform,  or  dais,  the  seat  of  state,  above  which  was 
the  portrait  of  a  man  in  antique  garb,  with  a  long  robe,  a  ruff,  and 
a  venerable  gray  beard. 

The  whole  establishment  had  an  air  of  monastic  quiet  and  seclu 
sion,  and  what  gave  it  a  mysterious  charm  was,  that  I  had  not 
met  with  a  human  being  since  I  had  passed  the  threshold. 

Encouraged  by  this  loneliness,  I  seated  myself  in  a  recess  of  a 
large  bow  window,  which  admitted  a  broad  flood  of  yellow  sun 
shine,  checkered  here  and  there  by  tints  from  panes  of  colored 
glass ;  while  an  open  casement  let  in  the  soft,  summer  air.  Here, 
leaning  my  head  on  my  hand,  and  my  arm  on  an  old  oaken  table, 
I  indulged  in  a  sort  of  a  reverie  about  what  might  have  been  the 
ancient  uses  of  this  edifice.  It  had  evidently  been  of  monastic  origin  ; 
perhaps  one  of  those  collegiate  establishments  built  of  yore  for  the 
promotion  of  learning,  where  the  patient  monk,  in  the  ample 
solitude  of  the  cloister,  added  page  to  page  and  volume  to  volume, 
emulating  in  the  productions  of  his  brain  the  magnitude  of  the  pile 
he  inhabited. 

As  I  was  seated  in  this  musing  mood,  a  small,  panelled  door  in 
an  arch  at  the  upper  end  of  the  hall  was  opened,  and  a  number  of 
gray-headed  old  men  clad  in  long,  black  cloaks,  came  forth  one  by 
one;  proceeding  in  that  manner  through  the  hall,  without  uttering 
a  word,  each  turning  a  pale  face  on  me  as  he  passed,  and  disap 
pearing  through  a  door  at  the  lower  end. 

I  was  singularly  struck  with  their  appearance  ;  their  black  cloaks 
and  antiquated  air  comported  with  the  style  of  this  most  venerable 
and  mysterious  pile.  It  was  as  if  the  ghosts  of  the  departed  years, 
about  which  I  had  been  musing,  were  passing  in  review  before  me. 
Pleasing  myself  with  such  fancies,  I  set  out,  in  the  spirit  of 
romance,  to  explore  what  I  pictured  to  myself  a  realm  of  shadows, 
existing  in  the  very  centre  of  substantial  realities. 

My  ramble  led  me  through  a  labyrinth  of  interior  courts  and 
corridors  and  dilapidated  cloisters,  for  the  main  edifice  had  many 
additions  and  dependencies,  built  at  various  times  and  in  various 
styles ;  in  one  open  space  a  number  of  boys,  who  evidently  belonged 


LONDON  ANTIQ UES.  1 8? 

to  the  establishment,  were  at  their  sports:  but  everywhere  I 
observed  those  mysterious,  old,  gray  men  in  black  mantles,  some 
times  sauntering  alone,  sometimes  conversing  in  groups:  they 
appeared  to  be  the  pervading  genii  of  the  place.  I  now  called  to 
mind  what  I  had  read  of  certain  colleges  in  old  times,  where  judi 
cial  astrology,  geomancy,  necromancy,  and  other  forbidden  and 
magical  sciences  were  taught.  Was  this  an  establishment  of  the 
kind,  and  were  these  black-cloaked  old  men  really  professors  of  the 
black  art  ? 

These  surmises  were  passing  through  my  mind  as  my  eye  glanced 
into  a  chamber,  hung  round  with  all  kinds  of  strange  and  uncouth 
objects ;  implements  of  savage  warfare  ;  strange  idols  and  stuffed 
alligators;  bottled  serpents  and  monsters  decorated  the  mantle- 
piece  ;  while  on  the  high  tester  of  an  old-fashioned  bedstead 
grinned  a  human  skull,  flanked  on  each  side  by  a  dried  cat. 

I  approached  to  regard  more  narrowly  this  mystic  chamber, 
which  seemed  a  fitting  laboratory  for  a  necromancer,  when  I  was 
startled  at  beholding  a  human  countenance  staring  at  me  from 
a  dusky  corner.  It  was  that  of  a  small,  shrivelled,  old  man,  with 
thin  cheeks,  bright  eyes,  and  gray,  wiry,  projecting  eyebrows.  I 
at  first  doubted  whether  it  were  not  a  mummy  curiously  preserved, 
but  it  moved,  and  I  saw  that  it  was  alive.  It  was  another  of  these 
black-cloaked  old  men,  and,  as  I  regarded  his  quaint  physiognomy, 
his  obsolete  garb,  and  the  hideous  and  sinister  objects  by  which  he 
was  surrounded,  I  began  to  persuade  myself  that  I  had  come  upon 
the  arch  mago,  who  ruled  over  this  magical  fraternity. 

Seeing  me  pausing  before  the  door,  he  rose  and  invited  me  to 
enter.  I  obeyed,  with  singular  hardihood,  for  how  did  I  know 
whether  a  wave  of  his  wand  might  not  metamorphose  me  into  some 
strange  monster,  or  conjure  me  into  one  of  the  bottles  on  his 
mantlepiece  ?  He  proved,  however,  to  be  anything  but  a  conjuror, 
and  his  simple  garrulity  soon  dispelled  all  the  magic  and  mystery 
with  which  I  had  enveloped  this  antiquated  pile  and  its  no  less  anti 
quated  inhabitants. 

It  appeared  that  I  had  made  my  way  into  the  centre  of  an  ancient 
asylum  for  superannuated  tradesmen  and  decayed  householders, 
with  which  was  connected  a  school  for  a  limited  number  of  boys. 
It  was  founded  upwards  of  two  centuries  since  on  an  old  monastic 
establishment,  and  retained  somewhat  of  the  conventual  air  and 
character.  The  shadowy  line  of  old  men  in  black  mantles  who 
had  passed  before  me  in  the  hall,  and  whom  I  had  elevated  into 
magi,  turned  out  to  be  the  pensioners  returning  from  morning  ser 
vice  in  the  chapel. 


;S8  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

John  Hallum,  the  little  collector  of  curiosities,  whom  I  had  made, 
the  arch  magician,  had  been  for  six  years  a  resident  of  the  place, 
and  had  decorated  this  final  nestling-place  of  his  old  age  with 
relics  and  rarities  picked  up  in  the  course  of  his  life.  According  to 
his  own  account  he  had  been  somewhat  of  a  traveller;  having  been 
once  in  France,  and  very  near  making  a  visit  to  Holland.  He 
regretted  not  having  visited  the  latter  country,  "  as  then  he  might- 
have  said  he  had  been  there."  He  was  evidently  a  traveller  cf 
the  simplest  kind. 

He  was  aristocratical,  too,  in  his  notions ;  keeping  aloof,  as  I 
found,  from  the  ordinary  run  of  pensioners.  His  chief  associates 
were  a  blind  man  who  spoke  Latin  and  Greek,  of  both  which  lan 
guages  Hallum  was  profoundly  ignorant ;  and  a  broken-down  gen 
tleman  who  had  run  through  a  fortune  of  forty  thousand  pounds 
left  him  by  his  father,  and  ten  thousand  pounds,  the  marriage 
portion  of  his  wife.  Little  Hallum  seemed  to  consider  it  an  indu 
bitable  sign  of  gentle  blood  as  well  as  of  lofty  spirit  to  be  able  to 
squander  such  enormous  sums. 

P.  S.  The  picturesque  remnant  of  old  times  into  which  I  have 
thus  beguiled  the  reader  is  what  is  called  the  Charter  House,  origin 
ally  the  Chartreuse.  It  was  founded  in  1611,  on  the  remains  of  an 
ancient  convent,  by  Sir  Thomas  Sutton,  being  one  of  those  noble 
charities  set  on  foot  by  individual  munificence,  and  kept  up  with 
the  quaintness  and  sanctity  of  ancient  times  amidst  the  modern 
changes  and  innovations  of  London.  Here  eighty  broken-down 
men,  who  have  seen  better  days,  are  provided,  in  their  old  age, 
with  food,  clothing,  fuel,  and  a  yearly  allowance  for  private  expenses. 
They  dine  together  as  did  the  monks  of  old,  in  the  hall  which  had 
been  the  refectory  of  the  original  convent.  Attached  to  the  estab 
lishment  is  a  school  for  forty-four  boys. 

Stow,  whose  work  I  have  consulted  on  the  subject,  speaking  of 
the  obligations  of  the  gray-headed  pensioners,  says,  "They  are  not 
-to  intermeddle  with  any  business  touching  the  affairs  of  the  hospita  1, 
but  to  attend  only  to  the  service  of  God,  to  take  thankfully  what  is 
provided  for  them,  without  muttering,  murmuring,  or  grudging. 
None  to  wear  weapon,  long  hair,  colored  boots,  spurs  or  colored 
shoes,  feathers  in  their  hats,  or  any  ruffian-like  or  unseemly 
apparel,  but  such  as  becomes  hospital  men  to  wear."  "And  in 
truth,"  adds  Stow,  "happy  are  they  that  are  so  taken  from  the  cares 
and  sorrows  of  the  world,  and  fixed  in  so  good  a  place  as  these  old 
men  are;  having  nothing  to  care  for,  but  the  good  of  their  souls,  to 
serve  God  and  to  live  in  brotherly  love." 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  189 

For  the  amusement  of  such  as  have  been  interested  by  the  pre 
ceding  sketch,  taken  down  from  my  own  observation,  and  who  may 
wish  to  know  a  little  more  about  the  mysteries  of  London,  I  subjoin 
a  modicum  of  local  history,  put  into  my  hands  by  an  odd-looking 
old  gentleman  in  a  small,  brown  wig  and  a  snuff-colored  coat,  with 
whom  I  became  acquainted  shortly  after  my  visit  to  the  Charter 
House.  I  confess  I  was  a  little  dubious  at  first,  whether  it  was  not 
one  of  those  apocryphal  tales  often  passed  off  upon  inquiring  trav 
ellers  like  myself;  and  which  have  brought  our  general  character 
for  veracity  into  such  unmerited  reproach.  On  making  proper 
inquiries,  however,  I  have  received  the  most  satisfactory  assurances 
of  the  author's  probity;  and,  indeed,  have  been  told  that  he  is  act 
ually  engaged  in  a  full  and  particular  account  of  the  very  interest 
ing  region  in  which  he  resides ;  of  which  the  following  may  be 
considered  merely  as  a  foretaste. 


LITTLE  BRITAIN. 

What  I  write  is  most  true  *  *  *  *  I  have  a  whole  booke  of  cases  lying  by  me 
which  if  I  should  sette  foorth,  some  grave  auntieuts  (within  the  hearing  of  Bow 
bell)  would  be  out  of  charity  with  me. 

NASHE. 

IN  the  centre  of  the  great  city  of  London  lies  a  small  neighbor 
hood,  consisting  of  a  cluster  of  narrow  streets  and  courts,  of 
very  venerable  and  debilitated  houses,  which  goes  by  the  name 
of  LITTLE  BRITAIN.  Christ  Church  School  and  St.  Bartholo 
mew's  Hospital  bound  it  on  the  west ;  Smithfield  and  Long  Lane 
on  the  north  ;  Aldersgate  Street,  like  an  arm  of  the  sea,  divides  it 
from  the  eastern  part  of  the  city;  whilst  the  yawning  gulf  of  Bull- 
and-Mouth  Street  separates  it  from  Butcher  Lane,  and  the  regions 
of  Newgate.  Over  this  little  territory,  thus  bounded  and  desig 
nated,  the  great  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  swelling  above  the  intervening 
houses  of  Paternoster  Row,  Amen  Corner,  and  Ave  Maria  Lane, 
looks  down  with  an  air  of  motherly  protection. 

This  quarter  derives  its  appellation  from  having  been,  in  ancient 
times,  the  residence  of  the  Dukes  of  Brittany.  As  London 
increased,  however,  rank  and  fashion  rolled  off  to  the  west,  and 
trade  creeping  on  at  their  heels,  took  possession  of  their  deserted 
abodes.  For  some  time  Little  Britain  became  the  great  mart  of 
learning,  and  was  peopled  by  the  busy  and  prolific  race  of  book 
sellers  ;  these  also  gradually  deserted  it,  and,  emigrating  beyond 


,90  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  great  strait  of  Newgate  Street,  settled  down  in  Paternoster  Row 
and  St.  Paul's  Church-Yard,  where  they  continue  to  increase  and 
multiply  even  at  the  present  day. 

But  though  thus  fallen  into  decline,  Little  Britain  still  bears 
traces  of  its  former  splendor.  There  are  several  houses  ready  to 
tumble  down,  the  fronts  of  which  are  magnificently  enriched  with 
old,  oaken  carvings  of  hideous  faces,  unknown  birds,  beasts  and 
fishes :  and  fruits  and  flowers  which  it  would  perplex  a  naturalist 
to  classify.  There  are,  also,  in  Aldersgate  Street,  certain  remains 
of  what  were  once  spacious  and  lordly  family  mansions,  but  which 
have  in  latter  days  beerusubdivided  into  several  tenements.  Here 
may  often  be  found  the  family  of  a  petty  tradesman,  with  its 
trumpery  furniture,  burrowing  among  the  relics  of  antiquated 
finery,  in  great,  rambling,  time-stained  apartments,  with  fretted 
ceilings,  gilded  cornices,  and  enormous  marble  fireplaces.  The 
lanes  and  courts  also  contain  many  smaller  houses,  not  on  so 
grand  a  scale,  but,  like  your  small  ancient  gentry,  sturdily  main 
taining  their  claims  to  equal  antiquity.  These  have  their  gable 
ends  to  the  street ;  great  bow  windows,  with  diamond  panes  set  in 
lead,  grotesque  carvings,  and  low,  arched  door-ways.* 

In  this  most  venerable  and  sheltered  little  nest  have  I  passed 
several  quiet  years  of  existence,  comfortably  lodged  in  the  second 
floor  of  one  of  the  smallest  but  oldest  edifices.  My  sitting-room  is 
an  old  wainscoted  chamber,  with  small  panels,  and  set  off  with  a 
miscellaneous  array  of  furniture.  I  have  a  particular  respect  for 
three  or  four  high-backed,  claw-footed  chairs,  covered  with  tar 
nished  brocade,  which  bear  the  marks  of  having  seen  better  days, 
and  have,  doubtless,  figured  in  some  of  the  old  palaces  of  Little 
Britain.  They  seem  to  me  to  keep  together,  and  to  look  down  with 
sovereign  contempt  upon  their  leathern-bottomed  neighbors ;  as  I. 
have  seen  decayed  gentry  carry  a  high  head  among  the  plebeian 
society  with  which  they  were  reduced  to  associate.  The  whole 
front  of  my  sitting-room  is  taken  up  with  a  bow  window;  on  the 
panes  of  which  are  recorded  the  names  of  previous  occupants  for 
many  generations,  mingled  with  scraps  of  very  indifferent,  gentle 
manlike  poetry,  written  in  characters  which  I  can  scarcely  deci 
pher,  and  which  extol  the  charms  of  many  a  beauty  of  Little 
Britain,  who  has  long,  long  since  bloomed,  faded,  and  passed 
away.  As  I  am  an  idle  personage,  with  no  apparent  occupation, 
and  pay  my  bill  regularly  every  week,  I  am  looked  upon  as  the 
only  independent  gentleman  of  the  neighborhood ;  and,  being 

*  It  is  evident  that  the  author  of  this  interesting  communication  has 
Included,  in  his  general  title  of  Little  Britain,  many  of  those  little  lanes  and 
Courts  that  belong  immediately  to  Cloth  fair. 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  191 

curious  to  learn  the  internal  state  of  a  community  so  apparently 
shut  up  within  itself,  I  have  managed  to  work  my  way  into  all  the 
concerns  and  secrets  of  the  place. 

Little  Britain  may  truly  be  called  the  heart's  core  of  the  city; 
the  strong-hold  of  true  John  Bullism.  It  is  a  fragment  of  London 
as  it  was  in  its  better  days,  with  its  antiquated  folks  and  fashions. 
Here  flourish  in  great  preservation  many  of  the  holiday  games  and 
customs  of  yore.  The  inhabitants  most  religiously  eat  pancakes  on 
Shrove  Tuesday,  hot-cross-buns  on  Good  Friday,  and  roast  goose 
at  Michaelmas;  they  send  love-letters  on  Valentine's  Day,  burn 
the  pope  on  the  fifth  of  November,  and  kiss  all  the  girls  under  the 
mistletoe  at  Christmas.  Roast  beef  and  plum-pudding  are  also 
held  in  superstitious  veneration,  and  port  and  sherry  maintain  their 
grounds  as  the  only  true  English  wines ;  all  others  being  considn 
ered  vile,  outlandish  beverages. 

Little  Britain  has  its  long  catalogue  of  city  wonders,  which  its 
inhabitants  consider  the  wonders  of  the  world  ;  such  as  the  great 
bell  of  St.  Paul's,  which  sours  all  the  beer  when  it  tolls ;  the  figures 
that  strike  the  hours  at  St.  Dunstan's  clock ;  the  Monument ;  the 
lions  in  the  Tower :  and  the  wooden  giants  in  Guildhall.  They 
still  believe  in  dreams  and  fortune-telling,  and  an  old  woman  that 
lives  in  Bull-and-Mouth  Street  makes  a  tolerable  subsistence  by 
detecting  stolen  goods,  and  promising  the  girls  good  husbands. 
They  are  apt  to  be  rendered  uncomfortable  by  comets  and  eclipses; 
and  if  a  dog  howls  dolefully  at  night,  it  is  looked  upon  as  a  sure 
sign  of  a  death  in  the  place.  There  are  even  many  ghost  stories 
current,  particularly  concerning  the  old  mansion-houses;  in  several 
of  which  it  is  said  strange  sights  are  sometimes  seen.  Lords  and 
ladies,  the  former  in  full-bottomed  wigs,  hanging  sleeves,  and 
swords,  the  latter  in  lappets,  stays,  hoops,  and  brocade,  have  been 
seen  walking  up  and  down  the  great  waste  chambers,  on  moonlight 
nights ;  and  are  supposed  to  be  the  shades  of  the  ancient  propri 
etors  in  their  court-dresses. 

Little  Britain  has  likewise  its  sages  and  great  men.  One  of  the 
most  important  of  the  former  is  a  tall,  dry  old  gentleman,  of  the 
name  of  Skryme,  who  keeps  a  small  apothecary's  shop.  He  has  a 
cadaverous  countenance,  full  of  cavities  and  projections ;  with  a 
brown  circle  round  each  eye,  like  a  pair  of  horn  spectacles.  He 
is  much  thought  of  by  the  old  women,  who  consider  him  as  a  kind 
of  conjurer,  because  he  has  two  or  three  stuffed  alligators  hanging 
up  in  his  shop,  and  several  snakes  in  bottles.  He  is  a  great  reader 
of  almanacs  and  newspapers,  and  is  much  given  to  pore  over 
Alarming  accounts  of  plots,  conspiracies,  fires,  earthquakes,  and 


192  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

volcanic  eruptions ;  which  last  phenomena  he  considers  as  signs 
of  the  times.  He  has  always  some  dismal  tale  of  the  kind  to  deal 
out  to  his  customers  with  their  doses ;  and  thus  at  the  same  time 
puts  both  soul  and  body  into  an  uproar.  He  is  a  great  believer  in 
omens  and  predictions  ;  and  has  the  prophecies  of  Robert  Nixon 
and  Mother  Shipton  by  heart.  No  man  can  make  so  much  out  of 
an  eclipse,  or  even  an  unusually  dark  day;  and  he  shook  the  tail 
of  the  last  comet  over  the  heads  of  his  customers  and  disciples 
until  they  were  nearly  frightened  out  of  their  wits.  He  has  lately 
got  hold  of  a  popular  legend  or  prophecy,  on  which  he  has  been 
unusually  eloquent.  There  has  been  a  saying  current  among  the 
ancient  sibyls,  who  treasure  up  these  things,  that  when  the  grass 
hopper  on  the  top  of  the  Exchange  shook  hands  with  the  dragon 
on  the  top  of  Bow  Church  steeple,  fearful  events  would  take  place. 
This  strange  conjunction,  it  seems,  has  as  strangely  come  to  pass. 
The  same  architect  has  been  engaged  lately  on  the  repairs  of  the 
cupola  of  the  Exchange,  and  the  steeple  of  Bow  Church ;  and, 
fearful  to  relate,  the  dragon  and  the  grasshopper  actually  lie,  cheek 
by  jole,  in  the  yard  of  his  workshop. 

"  Others,"  as  Mr.  Skryme  is  accustomed  to  say,  "  may  go  star 
gazing,  and  look  for  conjunctions  in  the  heavens,  but  here  is  a  con 
junction  on  the  earth,  near  at  home,  and  under  our  own  eyes, 
which  surpasses  all  the  signs  and  calculations  of  astrologers." 
Since  these  portentous  weather-cocks  have  thus  laid  their  heads 
together,  wonderful  events  had  already  occurred.  The  good  old 
king,  notwithstanding  that  he  had  lived  eighty-two  years,  had  all 
at  once  given  up  the  ghost ;  another  king  had  mounted  the  throne; 
a  royal  duke  had  died  suddenly — another,  in  France,  had  been 
murdered  ;  there  had  been  radical  meetings  in  all  parts  of  the 
kingdom ;  the  bloody  scenes  at  Manchester;  the  great  plot  in  Cato 
Street ; — and,  above  all,  the  queen  had  returned  to  England  !  All 
these  sinister  events  are  recounted  by  Mr.  Skryme,  with  a  mys 
terious  look,  and  a  dismal  shake  of  the  head;  and  being  taken  with 
his  drugs,  and  associated  in  the  minds  of  his  auditors  with  stuffed 
sea-monsters,  bottled  serpents,  and  his  own  visage,  which  is  a 
title-page  of  tribulation,  they  have  spread  great  gloom  through  the 
minds  of  the  people  of  Little  Britain.  They  shake  their  heads 
whenever  they  go  by  Bow  Church,  and  observe  that  they  never 
expected  any  good  to  come  of  taking  down  that  steeple,  which  in 
old  times  told  nothing  but  glad  tidings,  as  the  history  of  Whitting- 
ton  and  his  Cat  bears  witness. 

The  rival  oracle  of  Little  Britain  is  a  substantial  cheesemonger, 
who  lives  in  a  fragment  of  one  of  the  old  family  mansions,  and  i§ 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  IQ3 

AS  magnificently  lodged  as  a  round-bellied  mite  in  the  midst  of  one 
of  his  own  Cheshires.  Indeed,  he  is  a  man  of  no  little  standing  and 
importance ;  and  his  renown  extends  through  Huggin  Lane,  and 
Lad  Lane,  and  even  unto  Aldermanbury.  His  opinion  is  very 
much  taken  in  affairs  of  state,  having  read  the  Sunday  papers  for 
the  last  half  century,  together  with  the  Gentleman's  Magazine, 
Rapin's  History  of  England,  and  the  Naval  Chronicle.  His  head  is 
stored  with  invaluable  maxims  which  have  borne  the  test  of  time 
and  use  for  centuries.  It  is  his  firm  opinion  that  "it  is  amoral 
impossible,"  so  long  as  England  is  true  to  herself,  that  anything 
can  shake  her:  and  he  has  much  to  say  on  the  subject  of  the 
national  debt ;  which,  somehow  or  other,  he  proves  to  be  a  great 
national  bulwark  and  blessing.  He  passed  the  greater  part  of  his 
life  in  the  purlieus  of  Little  Britain,  until  of  late  years,  when,  having 
become  rich,  and  grown  into  the  dignity  of  a  Sunday  cane,  he 
begins  to  take  his  pleasure  and  see  the  world.  He  has,  therefore, 
made  several  excursions  to  Hampstead,  Highgate,  and  other  neigh* 
boring  towns,  where  he  has  passed  whole  afternoons  in  looking 
back  upon  the  metropolis  through  a  telescope,  and  endeavoring  to 
descry  the  steeple  of  St.  Bartholomew's.  Not  a  stage-coachman 
of  Bull-and-Mouth  Street  but  touches  his  hat  as  he  passes  ;  and  he 
is  considered  quite  a  patron  at  the  coach-office  of  the  Goose  and 
Gridiron,  St.  Paul's  Church-yard.  His  family  have  been  very 
urgent  for  him  to  make  an  expedition  to  Margate,  but  he  has  great 
doubts  of  those  new  gimcracks,  the  steamboats,  and,  indeed,  thinks 
himself  too  advanced  in  life  to  undertake  sea-voyages. 

Little  Britain  has  occasionally  its  factions  and  divisions,  and 
party  spirit  ran  very  high  at  one  time  in  consequence  of  two  rival 
"  Burial  Societies"  being  set  up  in  the  place.  One  held  its  meet 
ing  at  the  Swan  and  Horse  Shoe,  and  was  patronized  by  the  cheese 
monger;  the  other  at  the  Cock  and  Crown,  under  the  auspices  of 
the  apothecary :  it  is  needless  to  say  that  the  latter  was  the  most 
flourishing.  I  have  passed  an  evening  or  two  at  each,  and  have 
acquired  much  valuable  information,  as  to  the  best  mode  of  being 
buried,  the  comparative  merits  of  church-yards,  together  with 
divers  hints  on  the  subject  of  patent-iron  coffins.  I  have  heard  the 
question  discussed  in  all  its  bearings  as  to  the  legality  of  prohibit 
ing  the  latter  on  account  of  their  durability.  The  feuds  occasioned 
by  these  societies  have  happily  died  of  late  ;  but  they  were  for  a 
long  time  prevailing  themes  of  controversy,  the  people  of  Little 
Britain  being  extremely  solicitous  of  funereal  honors  and  of  lying 
comfortably  in  their  graves. 

Besides  these  two  funeral  societies  there  is  a  third  of  quite  a 
7 


I94  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

different  cast,  which  tends  to  throw  the  sunshine  of  good-humor 
over  the  whole  neighborhood.  It  meets  once  a  week  at  a  little  old- 
fashioned  house,  kept  by  a  jolly  publican  of  the  name  of  Wagstaff, 
and  bearing  for  insignia  a  resplendent  half-moon,  with  a  most 
seductive  bunch  of  grapes.  The  old  edifice  is  covered  with  inscrip 
tions  to  catch  the  eye  of  the  thirsty  wayfarer;  such  as  "Truman, 
Hanbury  and  Co.'s  Entire,"  "Wine,  Rum  and  Brandy  Vaults," 
"  Old  Tom,  Rum  and  Compounds,  etc."  This,  indeed,  has  been  a 
temple  of  Bacchus  and  Momus  from  time  immemorial.  It  has 
always  been  in  the  family  of  the  Wagstaffs,  so  that  its  history  is 
tolerably  preserved  by  the  present  landlord.  It  was  much  fre 
quented  by  the  gallants  'and  cavalieros  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth, 
and  was  looked  into  now  and  then  by  the  wits  of  Charles  the 
Second's  day.  But  what  Wagstaff  principally  prides  himself  upon 
is,  that  Henry  the  Eighth,  in  one  of  his  nocturnal  rambles,  broke 
the  head  of  one  of  his  ancestors  with  his  famous  walking-staff. 
This,  however,  is  considered  as  rather  a  dubious  and  vainglorious 
boast  of  the  landlord. 

The  club  which  now  holds  its  weekly  sessions  here  goes  by  the 
name  of  "The  Roaring  Lads  of  Little  Britain."  They  abound  in 
old  catches,  glees,  and  choice  stories,  that  are  traditional  in  the 
place,  and  not  to  be  met  with  in  any  other  part  of  the  metropolis. 
There  is  a  mad-cap  undertaker  who  is  inimitable  at  a  merry  song  ; 
but  the  life  of  the  club,  and,  indeed,  the  prime  wit  of  Little  Britain, 
is  bully  Wagstaff  himself.  His  ancestors  were  all  wags  before  him, 
and  he  has  inherited  with  the  inn  a  large  stock  of  songs  and  jokes, 
which  go  with  it  from  generation  to  generation  as  heir  looms.  He 
is  a  dapper  little  fellow,  with  bandy  legs  and  pot  belly,  a  red  face, 
with  a  moist,  merry  eye,  and  a  little  shock  of  gray  hair  behind.  At 
the  opening  of  every  club  night  he  is  called  in  to  sing  his  "  Confes 
sion  of  Faith,"  which  is  the  famous  old  drinking  trowl  from  Gam 
mer  Gurton's  Needle.  He  sings  it,  to  be  sure,  with  many  variations, 
as  he  received  it  from  his  father's  lips  ;  for  it  has  been  a  standing 
favorite  at  the  Half-Moon  and  Bunch  of  Grapes  ever  since  it  was 
written :  nay,  he  affirms  that  his  predecessors  have  often  had  the 
honor  of  singing  it  before  the  nobility  and  gentry  at  Christmas 
mummeries,  when  Little  Britain  was  in  all  its  glory.* 


*  As  mine  host  of  the  Half-Moon's  Confession  of  Faith  may  not  be  familiar  to 
the  majority  of  readers,  and  as  it  is  a  specimen  of  the  current  songs  of  Little 
Britain,  I  subjoin  it  in  its  original  orthography.  I  would  observe,  that  the 
whole  club  always  join  in  the  chorus  with  a  fearful  thumping  on  the  table  and 
elattr  ring  of  pewter  pots. 

I  cannot  eate  but  lytle  meate. 
My  stomacke  is  not  good, 


LITTLE  BRITAIN. 


195 


It  would  do  one's  heart  good  to  hear,  on  a  club  night,  the  shouts 
of  merriment,  the  snatches  of  song,  and  now  and  then  the  choral 
bursts  of  half  a  dozen  discordant  voices,  which  issue  from  this 
jovial  mansion.  At  such  times  the  street  is  lined  with  listeners, 
who  enjoy  a  delight  equal  to  that  of  gazing  into  a  confectioner's 
window,  or  snuffing  up  the  steams  of  a  cook-shop. 

There  are  two  annual  events  which  produce  great  stir  and  sensa 
tion  in  Little  Britain  ;  these  are  St.  Bartholomew's  fair,  and  the 
Lord  Mayor's  day.  During  the  time  of  the  fair,  which  is  held  in 
the  adjoining  regions  of  Smithfield,  there  is  nothing  going  on  but 
gossiping  and  gadding  about.  The  late  quiet  streets  of  Little 
Britain  are  overrun  with  an  irruption  of  strange  figures  and  faces  ; 
every  tavern  is  a  scene  of  rout  and  revel.  The  fiddle  and  the  song 
are  heard  from  the  tap-room,  morning,  noon  and  night ;  and  at 
each  window  may  be  seen  some  group  of  boon  companions,  with 
half-shut  eyes,  hats  on  one  side,  pipe  in  mouth,  and  tankard  in 
nand,  fondling  and  prosing  and  singing  maudlin  songs  over  their 
liquor.  Even  the  sober  decorum  of  private  families,  which  I  must 

But  sure  I  thinke  that  I  can  drinke 

With  him  that  weares  a  hood. 
Though  I  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care, 

I  nothing  am  a  colde, 
I  stuff  my  skyn  so  full  within, 

Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Cliorus.    Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare, 

Booth  foote  and  hand  go  colde, 
But  belly,  God  send  thee  good  alo  ynoughe 

Whether  it  be  new  or  olde. 

I  have  no  rost,  but  a  nut  brawne  toste, 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  fyre ; 
A  little  breade  shall  do  me  steade, 

Much  breade  I  not  desyre. 
No  frost  nor  snow,  nor  winde,  I  trowc, 

Can  hurte  mee,  if  I  wolde, 
I  am  so  wrapt  and  throw! y  lapt 

Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Chorut.    Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc. 

And  Tyb  my  wife,  that,  as  her  lyfe, 

Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seeke, 
Full  oft  drvnkes  shee,  tyll  ye  may  see, 

The  teares  run  downe  her  cheeke. 
Then  doth  she  trowle  to  me  the  bowle, 

Even  as  a  mault-worme  sholde, 
And  sayth,  sweete  harte,  I  took  my  parte 

Of  this  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Chorus.    Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc. 

Now  let  them  drynke,  tyll  they  nod  and  winke, 

Even  as  goode  fellowes  sholde  doe, 
They  shall  not  mysse  to  have  the  blisse, 

Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to; 
And  all  poo  re  soules  that  have  scowred  bowlee, 

Or  have  thorn  lustily  trolde. 
God  save  the  !y VPS  of  them  and  their  wives, 

Whether  they  bo  vonge  or  olde. 
Chorus.    Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  eto. 


I96  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

say  is  rigidly  kept  up  at  other  times  among  my  neighbors,  is  ne 
proof  against  this  Saturnalia.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  keeping 
maid-servants  within  doors.  Their  brains  are  absolutely  set  mad 
ding  with  Punch  and  the  Puppet  Show  ;  the  Flying  Horses  ;  Signior 
Polito  ;  the  Fire-Eater ;  the  celebrated  Mr.  Paap ;  and  the  Irish 
Giant.  The  children,  too,  lavish  all  their  holiday  money  in  toys  and 
gilt  gingerbread,  and  fill  the  house  with  the  Lilliputian  din  of  drums, 
trumpets  and  penny  whistles. 

But  the  Lord  Mayor's  day  is  the  great  anniversary.  The  Lord 
Mayor  is  looked  up  to  by  the  inhabitants  of  Little  Britain  as  the 
greatest  potentate  upon  earth  ;  his  gilt  coach  with  six  horses  as  the 
summit  of  human  splendor  ;  and  his  procession,  with  all  the  Sheriffs 
and  Aldermen  in  his  train,  as  the  grandest  of  earthly  pageants. 
How  they  exult  in  the  idea,  that  the  King  himself  dare  not  enter 
the  city,  without  first  knocking  at  the  gate  of  Temple  Bar,  and 
asking  permission  of  the  Lord  Mayor:  for  if  he  did,  heaven  and 
earth !  there  is  no  knowing  what  might  be  the  consequence.  The 
man  in  armor  who  rides  before  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  is  the  city 
champion,  has  orders  to  cut  down  everybody  that  offends  against 
the  dignity  of  the  city  ;  and  then  there  is  the  little  man  with  a 
velvet  porringer  on  his  head,  who  sits  at  the  window  of  the  state 
coach,  and  holds  the  city  sword,  as  long  as  a  pike-staff — Odd's 
blood!  If  he  once  draws  that  sword,  Majesty  itself  is  not  safe  ! 

Under  the  protection  of  this  mighty  potentate,  therefore,  the  good 
people  of  Little  Britian  sleep  in  peace.  Temple  Bar  is  an  effectual 
barrier  against  all  interior  foes  ;  and  as  to  foreign  invasion,  the  Lord 
Mayor  has  but  to  throw  himself  into  the  Tower,  call  in  the  train 
bands,  and  put  the  standing  army  of  Beef-eaters  under  arms,  and 
he  may  bid  defiance  to  the  world ! 

Thus  wrapped  up  in  its  own  concerns,  its  own  habits,  and  ita 
own  opinions,  Little  Britain  has  long  flourished  as  a  sound  heart 
to  this  great  fungous  metropolis.  I  have  pleased  myself  with 
considering  it  as  a  chosen  spot,  where  the  principles  of  sturdy  John 
Bullism  were  garnered  up,  like  seed  corn,  to  renew  the  national 
character,  when  it  had  run  to  waste  and  degeneracy.  I  have 
rejoiced,  also,  in  the  general  spirit  of  harmony  that  prevailed 
throughout  it ;  for  though  there  might  now  and  then  be  a  few  clashes 
of  opinion  between  the  adherents  of  the  cheesemonger  and  the 
apothecary,  and  an  occasional  feud  between  the  burial  societies, 
yet  these  were  but  transient  clouds,  and  soon  passed  away.  The 
neighbor?  met  with  good-will,  parted  with  a  shake  of  the  hand, 
and  never  abused  each  other  except  behind  their  backs. 

I  could  give  rare  descriptions  of  wuig  junketing  parties  at  which 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  197 

I  have  been  present;  where  we  played  at  All-Fours,  Pope-Joan, 
Tom-come -tickle-me,  and  other  choice  old  games  ;  and  where  we 
sometimes  had  a  good  old  English  country  dance  to  the  tune  of  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley.  Once  a  year,  also,  the  neighbors  would  gather 
together,  and  go  on  a  gipsy  party  to  Epping  Forest.  It  would 
have  done  any  man's  heart  good  to  see  the  merriment  that  took 
place  here  as  we  banqueted  on  the  grass  under  the  trees.  How  we 
made  the  woods  ring  with  bursts  of  laughter  at  the  songs  of  little 
Wagstaff  and  the  merry  undertaker  !  After  dinner,  too,  the  young 
folks  would  play  at  blind-man's-buff  and  hide-and-seek  ;  and  it  was 
amusing  to  see  them  tangled  among  the  briers,  and  to  hear  a  fine, 
romping  girl  now  and  then  squeak  from  among  the  bushes.  The 
elder  folks  would  gather  round  the  cheesemonger  and  the  apothe 
cary,  to  hear  them  talk  politics ;  for  they  generally  brought  out  a 
newspaper  in  their  pockets,  to  pass  away  time  in  the  country.  They 
would  now  and  then,  to  be  sure,  get  a  little  warm  in  argument 
but  their  disputes  were  always  adjusted  by  reference  to  a  worthy 
old  umbrella  maker  in  a  double  chin,  who,  never  exactly  compre 
hending  the  subject,  managed  somehow  or  other  to  decide  in  favor 
of  both  parties. 

All  empires,  however,  says  some  philosopher  or  historian,  are 
doomed  to  changes  and  revolutions.  Luxury  and  innovation  creep 
in ;  factions  arise ;  and  families  now  and  then  spring  up,  whose 
ambition  and  intrigues  throw  the  whole  system  into  confusion. 
Thus  in  latter  days  has  the  tranquillity  of  Little  Britain  been  griev 
ously  disturbed,  and  its  golden  simplicity  of  manners  threatened 
with  total  subversion,  by  the  aspiring  family  of  a  retired  butcher. 

The  family  of  the  Lambs  had  long  been  among  the  most  thriving 
and  popular  in  the  neighborhood:  the  Miss  Lambs  were  the  belles 
of  Little  Britain,  and  everybody  was  pleased  when  Old  Lamb  had 
made  money  enough  to  shut  up  shop,  and  put  his  name  on  a  brass 
plate  on  his  door.  In  an  evil  hour,  however,  one  of  the  Miss 
Lambs  had  the  honor  of  being  a  lady  in  attendance  of  the  Lady 
Mayoress,  at  her  grand  annual  ball,  on  which  occasion  she  wore 
three  towering  ostrich  feathers  on  her  head.  The  family  never  got 
over  it ;  they  were  immediately  smitten  with  a  passion  for  high  life  ; 
set  up  a  one-horse  carriage,  put  a  bit  of  gold  lace  round  the  errand 
boy's  hat,  and  have  been  the  talk  and  detestation  of  the  whole 
neighborhood  ever  since.  They  could  no  longer  be  induced  to 
play  at  Pope-Joan  or  blind-man's-buff;  they  could  endure  no 
dances  but  quadrilles,  which  nobody  had  ever  heard  of  in  Little 
Britain  ,  and  they  took  to  reading  novels,  talking  bad  French,  and 
playing  upon  the  piano.  Their  brother,  too,  who  had  been  articled 


198  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

to  an  attorney,  set  up  for  a  dandy  and  a  critic,  characters  hithertft 
unknown  in  these  parts  ;  and  he  confounded  the  worthy  folks  exceed 
ingly  by  talking  about  Kean,  the  opera,  and  the  Edinburgh  Review. 

What  was  still  worse,  the  Lambs  gave  a  grand  ball,  to  which  they 
neglected  to  invite  any  of  their  old  neighbors ;  but  they  had  a  great 
deal  of  genteel  company  from  Theobald's  Road,  Red-Lion  Square, 
and  other  parts  towards  the  west.  There  were  several  beaux  of 
their  brother's  acquaintance  from  Gray's  Inn  Lane  and  Hatton 
Garden;  and  not  less  than  three  Aldermen's  ladies  with  their 
daughters.  This  was  not  to  be  forgotten  or  forgiven.  All  Little 
Britain  was  in  an  uproar  with  the  smacking  of  whips,  the  lashing  of 
miserable  horses,  and  the  rattling  and  the  jingling  of  hackney 
coaches.  The  gossips  of  the  neighborhood  might  be  seen  popping 
their  night-caps  out  at  every  window,  watching  the  crazy  vehicles 
rumble  by  ;  and  there  was  a  knot  of  virulent  old  cronies,  that  kept 
a  look-out  from  a  house  just  opposite  the  retired  butcher's,  and 
scanned  and  criticised  every  one  that  knocked  at  the  door. 

This  dance  was  a  cause  of  almost  open  war,  and  the  whole 
neighborhood  declared  they  woulcl  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  the 
Lambs.  It  is  true  that  Mrs.  Lamb,  when  she  had  no  engagements 
with  her  quality  acquaintance,  would  give  little  humdrum  tea  junk 
etings  to  some  of  her  old  cronies,  "quite,"  as  she  would  say,  "in 
a  friendly  way;"  and  it  is  equally  true  that  her  invitations  were 
always  accepted,  in  spite  of  all  previous  vows  to  the  contrary.  Nay, 
the  good  ladies  would  sit  and  be  delighted  with  the  music  of  the 
Miss  Lambs,  who  would  condescend  to  strum  an  Irish  melody  for 
them  on  the  piano ;  and  they  would  listen  with  wonderful  interest 
to  Mrs.  Lamb's  anecdotes  of  Alderman  Plunket's  family,  of  Port- 
sokenward,  and  the  Miss  Timberlakes,  the  rich  heiresses  of 
Crutched-Friars  ;  but  then  they  relieved  their  consciences,  and 
averted  the  reproaches  of  their  confederates,  by  canvassing  at  the 
next  gossiping  convocation  everything  that  had  passed,  and  pulling 
the  Lambs  and  their  rout  all  to  pieces. 

The  only  one  of  the  family  that  could  not  be  made  fashionable 
was  the  retired  butcher  himself.  Honest  Lamb,  in  spite  of  the 
meekness  of  his  name,  was  a  rough,  hearty  old  fellow,  with  the 
voice  of  a  lion,  a  head  of  black  hair  like  a  shoe  brush,  and  a  broad 
face  mottled  like  his  own  beef.  It  was  in  vain  that  the  daughters 
always  spoke  of  him  as  "the  old  gentleman,"  addressed  him  as 
"papa,"  in  tones  of  infinite  softness,  and  endeavored  to  coax  him 
into  a  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  and  other  gentlemanly  habits. 
Do  what  they  might,  there  was  no  keeping  down  the  butcher.  His 
Sturdy  nature  would  break  through  all  their  glozings.  He  had  a 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  19$ 

hearty,  vulgar  good-humor  that  was  irrepressible.  His  very  joke;; 
made  his  sensitive  daughters  shudder  ;  and  he  persisted  in  wearing 
his  blue  cotton  coat  of  a  morning,  dining  at  two  o'clock,  and 
having  a  "bit  of  sausage  with  his  tea." 

He  was  doomed,  however,  to  share  the  unpopularity  of  his 
family.  He  found  his  old  comrades  gradually  growing  cold  and 
civil  to  him  ;  no  longer  laughing  at  his  jokes  ;  and  now  and  then 
throwing  out  a  fling  at  "  some  people,"  and  a  hint  about  "quality 
binding."  This  both  nettled  and  perplexed  the  honest  butcher; 
and  his  wife  and  daughters,  with  the  consummate  policy  of  the 
shrewder  sex,  taking  advantage  of  the  circumstance,  at  length  pre 
vailed  upon  him  to  give  up  his  afternoon's  pipe  and  tankard  at 
WagstafFs  ;  to  sit  after  dinner  by  himself,  and  take  his  pint  of  port 
— a  liquor  he  detested — and  to  nod  in  his  chair  in  solitary  and 
dismal  gentility. 

The  Miss  Lambs  might  now  be  seen  flaunting  along  the  streets  in 
French  bonnets,  with  unknown  beaux  ;  and  talking  and  laughing 
so  loud  that  it  distressed  the  nerves  of  every  good  lady  within 
hearing.  They  even  went  so  far  as  to  attempt  patronage,  and 
actually  induced  a  French  dancing-master  to  set  up  in  the  neigh- 
berhood ;  but  the  worthy  folks  of  Little  Britain  took  fire  at  it,  and 
did  so  persecute  the  poor  Gaul,  that  he  was  fain  to  pack  up  fiddle 
and  dancing-pumps,  and  decamp  with  such  precipitation,  that  he 
absolutely  forgot  to  pay  for  his  lodgings. 

I  had  flattered  myself,  at  first,  with  the  idea  that  all  this  fiery 
indignation  on  the  part  of  the  community  was  merely  the  over 
flowing  of  their  zeal  for  good  old  English  manners,  and  their  horror 
of  innovation ;  and  I  applauded  the  silent  contempt  they  were  so 
vociferous  in  expressing  for  upstart  pride,  French  fashions,  and  the 
Miss  Lambs.  But  I  grieve  to  say  that  I  soon  perceived  the  infection 
had  taken  hold  ;  and  that  my  neighbors,  after  condemning,  were 
beginning  to  follow  their  example.  I  overheard  my  landlady  im» 
portuning  her  husband  to  let  their  daughters  have  one  quarter  at 
French  and  music,  and  that  they  might  take  a  few  lessons  in 
quadrille.  I  even  saw,  in  the  course  of  a  few  Sundays,  no  less 
than  five  French  bonnets,  precisely  like  those  of  the  Miss  Lambs, 
parading  about  Little  Britain. 

I  still  had  my  hopes  that  all  this  folly  would  gradually  die  away ; 
that  the  Lambs  might  move  out  of  the  neighborhood  ;  might  die, 
or  might  run  away  with  attorneys'  apprentices  ;  and  that  quiet  and 
simplicity  might  be  again  restored  to  the  community.  But,  un 
luckily,  a  rival  power  arose.  An  opulent  oilman  died,  and  left  a 
widow  with  a  large  jointure  and  a  family  of  buxom  daughters. 


too  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

The  young  ladies  had  long  been  repining  in  secret  at  the  parsimony 
of  a  prudent  father,  which  kept  down  all  their  elegant  aspirings. 
Their  ambition,  being  now  no  longer  restrained,  broke  out  into  a 
blaze,  and  they  openly  took  the  field  against  the  family  of  the 
butcher.  It  is  true  that  the  Lambs,  having  had  the  first  start,  had 
naturally  an  advantage  of  them  in  the  fashionable  career.  They 
could  speak  a  little  bad  French,  play  the  piano,  dance  quadrilles, 
and  had  formed  high  acquaintances  ;  but  the  Trotters  were  not  to 
be  distanced.  When  the  Lambs  appeared  with  two  feathers  in 
their  hats,  the  Miss  Trotters  mounted  four,  and  of  twice  as  fine 
colors.  If  the  Lambs  gave  a  dance,  the  Trotters  were  sure  not  to 
be  behindhand :  and  though  they  might  not  boast  of  as  good  com 
pany,  yet  they  had  double  the  number,  and  were  twice  as  merry. 

The  whole  community  has  at  length  divided  itself  into  fashionable 
factions,  under  the  banners  of  these  two  families.  The  old  games 
of  Pope-Joan  and  Tom-come-tickle-me  are  entirely  discarded; 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  getting  up  an  honest,  country  dance;  and 
on  my  attempting  to  kiss  a  young  lady  under  the  mistletoe  last 
Christmas,  I  was  indignantly  repulsed;  the  Miss  Lambs  having 
pronounced  it  "shocking  vulgar."  Bitter  rivalry  has  also  broken 
out  as  to  the  most  fashionable  part  of  Little  Britain;  the  Lambs 
standing  up  for  the  dignity  of  Cross-Keys  Square,  and  the  Trotters 
for  the  vicinity  of  St.  Bartholomew's. 

Thus  is  this  little  territory  torn  by  factions  and  internal  dissen 
sions,  like  the  great  empire  whose  name  it  bears  ;  and  what  will  be 
the  result  would  puzzle  the  apothecary  himself,  with  all  his  talent 
at  prognostics,  to  determine  ;  though  I  apprehend  that  it  will  ter 
minate  in  the  total  downfall  of  genuine  John  Bullism. 

The  immediate  effects  are  extremely  unpleasant  to  me.  Being  a 
single  man,  and,  as  I  observed  before,  rather  an  idle,  good-for- 
nothing  personage,  I  have  been  considered  the  only  gentleman  by 
profession  in  the  place.  I  stand,  therefore,  in  high  favor  with  both 
parties,  and  have  to  hear  all  their  cabinet  councils  and  mutual 
backbitings.  As  I  am  too  civil  not  to  agree  with  the  ladies  on  all 
occasions,  I  have  committed  myself  most  horribly  with  both  parties, 
by  abusing  their  opponents.  I  might  manage  to  reconcile  this  to 
my  conscience,  which  is  a  truly  accommodating  one,  but  I  cannot 
to  my  apprehension— if  the  Lambs  and  Trotters  ever  come  to  a 
reconciliation,  and  compare  notes,  I  am  ruined ! 

I  have  determined,  therefore,  to  beat  a  retreat  in  time,  and  am 
actually  looking  out  for  some  other  nest  in  this  great  city,  where 
old  English  manners  are  still  kept  up ;  where  French  is  neither 
eaten,  drunk,  danced,  nor  spoken  ;  and  where  there  are  no  fashion- 


STRA  TFORD-  ON- A  VON.  Sol 

able  families  of  retired  tradesmen.  This  found,  I  will,  like  a 
veteran  rat,  hasten  away  before  I  have  an  old  house  about  my  ears, 
bid  a  long,  though  a  sorrowful  adieu  to  my  present  abode,  and 
leave  the  rival  factions  of  the  Lambs  and  the  Trotters  to  divide  the 
distracted  empire  of  LITTLE  BRITAIN. 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

Thou  soft-flowing  Avon,  by  thy  silver  stream 
Of  things  more  than  mortal  sweet  Shakspeare  would  dream 
The  fairies  by  moonlight  dance  round  his  green  bed, 
For  liallow'd  the  turf  is  which  pillow'd  his  head. 

GARRICK. 

TO  a  homeless  man,  who  has  no  spot  on  this  wide  world  which 
he  can  truly  call  his  own,  there  is  a  momentary  feeling  of 
something  like  independence  and  territorial  consequence, 
when,  after  a  weary  day's  travel,  he  kicks  off  his  boots,  thrusts  his 
feet  into  slippers,  and  stretches  himself  before  an  inn  fire.  Let  the 
world  without  go  as  it  may ;  let  kingdoms  rise  or  fall,  so  long  as  he 
has  the  wherewithal  to  pay  his  bill,  he  is,  for  the  time  being,  the 
very  monarch  of  all  he  surveys.  The  arm-chair  is  his  throne,  the 
poker  his  sceptre,  and  the  little  parlor,  some  twelve  feet  square, 
his  undisputed  empire.  It  is  a  morsel  of  certainty,  snatched  from 
the  midst  of  the  uncertainties  of  life;  it  is  a  sunny  moment  gleaming 
out  kindly  on  a  cloudy  day:  and  he  who  has  advanced  some  way 
on  the  pilgrimage  of  existence,  knows  the  importance  of  husbanding 
even  morsels  and  moments  of  enjoyment.  "  Shall  I  not  take  mine 
ease  in  mine  inn?"  thought  I,  as  I  gave  the  fire  a  stir,  lolled  back 
in  my  elbow-chair,  and  cast  a  complacent  look  about  the  little 
parlor  of  the  Reel  Morse,  at  Stratford-on-Avon. 

The  words  of  sweet  Shakspeare  were  just  passing  through  my 
mind  as  the  clock  struck  midnight  from  the  tower  of  the  church  in 
which  he  lies  buried.  There  was  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door,  and  a 
pretty  chambermaid,  putting  in  her.  smiling  face,  inquired,  with  a 
hesitating  air,  whether  I  had  rung.  I  understood  it  as  a  modest 
hint  that  it  was  time  to  retire.  My  dream  of  absolute  dominion 
was  at  an  end  ;  so,  abdicating  my  throne,  like  a  prudent  potenate, 
to  avoid  being  deposed,  and  putting  the  Stratford  Guide-Book 
under  my  arm  as  a  pillow  companion,  I  went  to  bed,  and  dreamt 
all  night  of  Shakspeare,  the  jubilee,  and  David  Garrick, 

The  next  morning  was  one  of  those  quickening  mornings  which 
we  sometimes  have  in  early  spring ;  for  it  was  about  the  middle  of 


$62  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

March.  The  chills  of  a  long  winter  had  suddenly  given  way;  the 
north  wind  had  spent  its  last  gasp;  and  a  mild  air  came  stealing 
from  the  west,  breathing  the  breath  of  life  into  nature,  and  wooing 
every  bud  and  flower  to  burst  forth  into  fragrance  and  beauty. 

I  had  come  to  Stratford  on  a  poetical  pilgrimage.  My  first  visit 
was  to  the  house  where  Shakspeare  was  born,  and  where,  accord 
ing  to  tradition,  he  was  brought  up  to  his  father's  craft  of  wool- 
combing.  It  is  a  small,  mean-looking  edifice  of  wood  and  plaster,  a 
true  nestling-place  of  genius,  which  seems  to  delight  in  hatching 
its  offspring  in  by-corners.  The  walls  of  its  squalid  chambers  are 
covered  with  names  and  inscriptions  in  every  language,  by  pilgrims 
of  all  nations,  ranks  and  conditions,  from  the  prince  to  the  peasant ; 
and  present  a  simple  but  striking  instance  of  the  spontaneous  and 
universal  homage  of  mankind  to  the  great  poet  of  nature. 

The  house  is  shown  by  a  garrulous  old  lady,  in  a  frosty,  red  face, 
lighted  up  by  a  cold  blue  anxious  eye,  and  garnished  with  artificial 
locks  of  flaxen  hair,  curling  from  under  an  exceedingly  dirty  cap. 
She  was  peculiarly  assiduous  in  exhibiting  the  relics  with  which 
this,  like  all  other  celebrated  shrines,  abounds.  There  was  the 
shattered  stock  of  the  very  match-lock  with  which  Shakspeare  shot 
the  deer,  on  his  poaching  exploits.  There,  too,  was  his  tobacco- 
box  ;  which  proves  that  he  was  a  rival  smoker  of  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh:  the  sword,  also,  with  which  he  played  Hamlet;  and  the 
identical  lantern  with  which  Friar  Laurence  discovered  Romeo  and 
Juliet  at  the  tornb!  There  was  an  ample  supply  also  of  Shak 
speare' s  mulberry-tree,  which  seems  to  have  as  extraordinary 
powers  of  self-multiplication  as  the  wood  of  the  true  cross;  of  which 
there  is  enough  extant  to  build  a  ship  of  the  line. 

The  most  favorite  object  of  curiosity,  however,  is  Shakspeare' s 
chair.  It  stands  in  the  chimney  nook  of  a  small,  gloomy  chamber, 
just  behind  what  was  his  father's  shop.  Here  he  may  many  a 
time  have  sat  when  a  boy,  watching  the  slowly  revolving 
spit  with  all  the  longing  of  an  urchin  ;  or  of  an  evening,  listening 
to  the  cronies  and  gossips  of  Stratford,  dealing  forth  church-yard 
tales  and  legendary  anecdotes  of  the  troublesome  times  of  Eng 
land.  In  this  chair  it  is  the  custom  of  every  one  that  visits  the 
house  to  sit;  whether  this  be  done  with  the  hope  of  imbibing  any 
of  the  inspiration  of  the  bard  I  am  at  a  loss  to  say,  I  merely  men 
tion  the  fact;  and  mine  hostess  privately  assured  me,  that,  though 
built  of  solid  oak,  such  was  the  fervent  zeal  of  devotees,  that  the 
chair  had  to  be  new-bottomed  at  least  once  in  three  years.  It  is 
worthy  of  notice,  also,  in  the  history  of  this  extraordinary  chair, 
that  it  partakes  something  of  the  volatile  nature  of  the  Santa  Casa 


STRA  TFORD-  ON- A  VON.  203 

of  Loretto,  or  the  flying  chair  of  the  Arabian  enchanter  ;  for 
though  sold  some  few  years  since  to  a  northern  princess,  yet, 
strange  to  tell,  it  has  found  its  way  back  again  to  the  old  chimney 
corner. 

I  am  always  of  easy  faith  in  such  matters,  and  am  ever  willing 
to  be  deceived,  where  the  deceit  is  pleasant  and  costs  nothing.  I 
am,  therefore,  a  ready  believer  in  relics,  legends,  and  local  anec 
dotes  of  goblins  and  great  men  ;  and  would  advise  all  travellers 
who  travel  for  their  gratification  to  be  the  same.  What  is  it  to  us, 
whether  these  stories  be  true  or  false,  so  long  as  we  can  persuade 
ourselves  into  the  belief  of  them,  and  enjoy  all  the  charm  of  the 
reality  ?  There  is  nothing  like  resolute,  good-humored  credulity 
in  these  matters  ;  and  on  this  occasion  I  went  even  so  far  as  will 
ingly  to  believe  the  claims  of  mine  hostess  to  a  lineal  descent  from 
the  poet,  when,  luckily  for  my  faith,  she  put  into  my  hands  a  play 
of  her  own  composition,  which  set  all  belief  in  her  consanguinity 
at  defiance. 

From  the  birth-place  of  Shakspeare  a  few  paces  brought  me  to 
his  grave.  He  lies  buried  in  the  chancel  of  the  parish  church,  a 
large  and  venerable  pile,  mouldering  with  age,  but  richly  orna 
mented.  It  stands  on  the  banks  of  the  Avon,  on  an  embowered 
point,  and  separated  by  adjoining  gardens  from  the  suburbs  of  the 
town.  Its  situation  is  quiet  and  retired  :  the  river  runs  murmuring 
at  the  foot  of  the  church-yard,  and  the  elms  which  grow  upon  its 
banks  droop  their  branches  into  its  clear  bosom.  An  avenue  of 
limes,  the  boughs  of  which  are  curiously  interlaced,  so  as  to  form 
in  summer  an  arched  way  of  foliage,  leads  up  from  the  gate  of 
the  yard  to  the  church  porch.  The  graves  are  overgrown  with 
grass ;  the  gray  tombstones,  some  of  them  nearly  sunk  into  the 
earth,  are  half  covered  with  moss,  which  has  likewise  tinted  the 
reverend  old  building.  Small  birds  have  built  their  nests  among 
the  cornices  and  fissures  of  the  walls,  and  keep  up  a  continual 
fluttering  and  chirping  ;  and  rooks  are  sailing  and  cawing  about  its 
lofty  gray  spire. 

In  the  course  of  my  rambles  I  met  with  the  gray-headed  sexton, 
Edmonds,  and  accompanied  him  home  to  get  the  key  of  the 
church.  He  had  lived  in  Stratford,  man  and  boy,  for  eighty  years, 
and  seemed  still  to  consider  himself  a  vigorous  man,  with  the 
trivial  exception  that  he  had  nearly  lost  the  use  of  his  legs  for  a  few 
years  past.  His  dwelling  was  a  cottage,  looking  out  upon  the 
Avon  and  its  bordering  meadows  ;  and  it  was  a  picture  of  that  neat 
ness,  order  and  comfort,  which  pervade  the  humblest  dwellings  in  this 
country.  A  low,  white-washed  room,  with  a  stone  floor  carefully 


204 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


scrubbed,  served  for  parlor,  kitchen  and  hall.  Rows  of  pewter 
and  earthen  dishes  glittered  along  the  dresser.  On  an  old  oaken 
table,  well  rubbed  and  polished,  lay  the  family  Bible  and  prayer- 
book,  and  the  drawer  contained  the  family  library,  composed  of 
about  half  a  score  of  well-thumbed  volumes.  An  ancient  clock, 
that  important  article  of  cottage  furniture,  ticked  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  room  ;  with  a  bright  warming-pan  hanging  on  one  side 
of  it,  and  the  old  man's  horn-handled  Sunday  cane  on  the  other. 
The  fireplace,  as  usual,  was  wide  and  deep  enough  to  admit  a  gossip 
knot  within  its  jambs.  In  one  corner  sat  the  old  man's  granddaugh 
ter  sewing,  a  pretty,  blue-eyed  girl, — and  in  the  opposite  corner  was 
a  superannuated  crony,  whom  he  addressed  by  the  name  of  John 
Ange,  and  who,  I  found,  had  been  his  companion  from  childhood. 


r*J  Craijon.-DeL 

They  had  played  together  in  infancy  ;  they  had  worked  together 
in  manhood  ;  they  were  now  tottering  about  and  gossiping  away 
the  evening  of  life  ;  and  in  a  short  time  they  will  probably  be 
buried  together  in  the  neighboring  church-yard.  It  is  not  often 
that  we  see  two  streams  of  existence  running  thus  evenly  and  tran 
quilly  side  by  side  ;  it  is  only  in  such  quiet  "  bosom  scenes  "  of  life 
that  they  are  to  be  met  with. 

I  had  hoped  to  gather  some  traditionary  anecdotes  of  the  bard 
from  these  ancient  chroniclers  ;  but  they  had  nothing  new  to  impart. 
The  long  interval  during  which  Shakspeare's  writings  lay  in  com 
parative  neglect  has  spread  its  shadow  over  his  history  ;  and  it  is 
his  good  or  evil  lot  that  scarcely  anything  remains  to  his  biog 
raphers  but  a  scanty  handful  of  conjectures. 

The  sexton  and  his  companion  had  been  employed  as  carpen- 


STRA  TFORD- ON- A  VON.  205 

ters  on  the  preparations  for  the  celebrated  Stratford  jubilee,  and 
they  remembered  Garrick,  the  prime  mover  of  the  fete,  who  super 
intended  the  arrangements,  and  who,  according  to  the  sexton,  was 
"  a  short  punch  man,  very  lively  and  bustling."  John  Ange  had 
assisted,  also,  in  cutting  down  Shakspeare's  mulberry-tree,  of 
which  he  had  a  morsel  in  his  pocket  for  sale  ;  no  doubt  a  sovereign 
quickener  of  literary  conception. 

I  was  grieved  to  hear  these  two  worthy  wights  speak  very  dubi 
ously  of  the  eloquent  dame  who  shows  the  Shakspeare  house.  John 
Ange  shook  his  head  when  I  mentioned  her  valuable  collection  of 
relics,  particularly  her  remains  of  the  mulberry -tree;  and  the  old 
sexton  even  expressed  a  doubt  as  to  Shakspeare  having  been  born 
in  her  house.  I  soon  discovered  that  he  looked  upon  her  mansion 
with  an  evil  eye,  as  a  rival  to  the  poet's  tomb;  the  latter  having 
comparatively  but  few  visitors.  Thus  it  is  that  historians  differ  at 
the  very  outset,  and  mere  pebbles  make  the  stream  of  truth  diverge 
into  different  channels  even  at  the  fountain  head. 

We  approached  the  church  through  the  avenue  of  limes,  and 
entered  by  a  Gothic  porch,  highly  ornamented,  with  carved  doors 
of  massive  oak.  The  interior  is  spacious,  and  the  architecture  and 
embellishments  superior  to  those  of  most  country  churches.  There 
are  several  ancient  monuments  of  nobility  and  gentry,  over  some 
of  which  hang  funeral  escutcheons,  and  banners  dropping  piece 
meal  from  the  walls.  The  tomb  of  Shakspeare  is  in  the  chancel. 
The  place  is  solemn  and  sepulchral.  Tall  elms  wave  before  the 
pointed  windows,  and  the  Avon,  which  runs  at  a  short  distance  from 
the  walls,  keeps  up  a  low,  perpetual  murmur.  A  flat  stone  marks 
the  spot  where  the  bard  is  buried.  There  are  four  lines  inscribed 
on  it,  said  to  have  been  written  by  himself,  and  which  have  in  them 
something  extremely  awful.  If  they  are  indeed  his  own,  they  show 
that  solicitude  about  the  quiet  of  the  grave  which  seems  natural  to 
fine  sensibilities  and  thoughtful  minds. 

Good  friend,  for  Jesus'  sake  forbears 
To  dig  the  dust  enclosed  here. 
Blessed  be  he  that  spares  these  stones, 
And  cursed  be  he  that  moves  my  bones. 

Just  over  the  grave,  in  a  niche  of  the  wall,  is  a  bust  of  Shakspeare, 
put  up  shortly  after  his  death,  and  considered  as  a  resemblance. 
The  aspect  is  pleasant  and  serene,  with  a  finely-arched  forehead ; 
and  I  thought  I  could  read  in  it  clear  indications  of  that  cheerful, 
social  disposition,  by  which  he  was  as  much  characterized  among 
his  contemporaries  as  by  the  vastness  of  his  gsnius.  The  inscrip- 


2o6  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

tion  mentions  his  age  at  the  time  of  his  decease — fifty -three  years-, 
an  untimely  death  for  the  world  :  for  what  fruit  might  not  have  been 
expected  from  the  golden  autumn  of  such  a  mind,  sheltered  as  it 
was  from  the  stormy  vicissitudes  of  life,  and  flourishing  in  the  sun 
shine  of  popular  and  royal  favor. 

The  inscription  on  the  tombstone  has  not  been  without  its  effect. 
It  has  prevented  the  removal  of  his  remains  from  the  bosom  of  his 
native  place  to  Westminster  Abbey,  which  was  at  one  time  contem 
plated.  A  few  years  since,  also,  as  some  laborers  were  digging  to 
make  an  adjoining  vault,  the  earth  caved  in,  so  as  to  leave  a  vacant 
space  almost  like  an  arch,  through  which  one  might  have  reached 
into  his  grave.  No  one,  however,  presumed  to  meddle  with  his 
remains  so  awfully  guarded  by  a  malediction;  and  lest  any  of  the 
idle  or  the  curious,  or  any  collector  of  relics,  should  be  tempted  to 
commit  depredations,  the  old  sexton  kept  watch  over  the  place  for 
two  days,  until  the  vault  was  finished  and  the  aperture  closed  again. 
He  told  me  that  he  had  made  bold  to  look  in  at  the  hole,  but  could 
see  neither  coffin  nor  bones;  nothing  but  dust.  It  was  something, 
I  thought,  to  have  seen  the  dust  of  Shakspeare. 

Next  to  this  grave  are  those  of  his  wife,  his  favorite  daughter, 
Mrs.  Hall,  and  others  of  his  family,  On  a  tomb  close  by,  also,  is 
a  full-length  effigy  of  his  old  friend  John  Combe  of  usurious 
memory  ;  on  whom  he  is  said  to  have  written  a  ludicrous  epitaph. 
There  are  other  monuments  around,  but  the  mind  refuses  to  dwell 
on  anything  that  is  not  connected  with  Shakspeare.  His  idea  per 
vades  the  place;  the  whole  pile  seems  but  as  his  mausoleum.  The 
feelings,  no  longer  checked  and  thwarted  by  doubt,  here  indulge 
in  perfect  confidence :  other  traces  of  him  may  be  false  or  dubious, 
but  here  is  palpable  evidence  and  absolute  certainty.  As  I  trod 
the  sounding  pavement,  there  was  something  intense  and  thrilling 
in  the  idea,  that,  in  very  truth,  the  remains  of  Shakspeare  were 
mouldering  beneath  my  feet.  It  was  a  long  time  before  I  could  pre 
vail  upon  myself  to  leave  the  place ;  and  as  I  passed  through  the 
church-yard,  I  plucked  a  branch  from  one  of  the  yew  trees,  the 
only  relic  that  I  have  brought  from  Stratford. 

I  had  now  visited  the  usual  objects  of  a  pilgrim's  devotion,  but 
I  had  a  desire  to  see  the  old  family  seat  of  the  Lucys,  at  Charlecot, 
and  to  ramble  through  the  park  where  Shakspeare,  in  company 
with  some  of  the  roysters  of  Stratford,  committed  his  youthful 
offence  of  deer-stealing.  In  this  hare-brained  exploit  we  are  told 
that  he  was  taken  prisoner,  and  carried  to  the  keeper's  lodge,  where 
he  remained  all  night  in  doleful  captivity.  When  brought  into  the 
presence  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  his  treatment  must  have  been  gal-. 


STRA  TFORD-  ON- A  VON.  207 

ing  and  humiliating ;  for  it  so  wrought  upon  his  spirit  as  to  produce 
a  rough  pasquinade,  which  was  affixed  to  the  park  gate  at  Charle- 
cot.* 

This  flagitious  attack  upon  the  dignity  of  the  knight  so  incensed 
him,  that  he  applied  to  a  lawyer  at  Warwick  to  put  the  severity  of 
the  laws  in  force  against  the  rhyming  deer-stalker.  Shakspeare 
did  not  wait  to  brave  the  united  puissance  of  a  knight  of  the  shire 
and  a  country  attorney.  He  forthwith  abandoned  the  pleasant 
banks  of  the  Avon  and  his  paternal  trade  ;  wandered  away  to  Lon 
don  ;  became  a  hanger-on  to  the  theatres ;  then  an  actor ;  and, 
finally,  wrote  for  the  stage  ;  and  thus,  through  the  persecution  of 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  Stratford  lost  an  indifferent  wool-comber,  and 
the  world  gained  an  immortal  poet.  He  retained,  however,  for  a 
long  time,  a  sense  of  the  harsh  treatment  of  the  Lord  of  Charlecot, 
and  revenged  himself  in  his  writings  ;  but  in  the  sportive  way  of  a 
good-natured  mind.  Sir  Thomas  is  said  to  be  the  original  Justice 
Shallow,  and  the  satire  is  slyly  fixed  upon  him  by  the  justice's 
armorial  bearings,  which,  like  those  of  the  knight,  had  white  lucesf 
in  the  quarterings. 

Various  attempts  have  been  made  by  his  biographers  to  soften 
and  explain  away  this  early  transgression  of  the  poet ;  but  I  look 
upon  it  as  one  of  those  thoughtless  exploits  natural  to  his  situation 
and  turn  of  mind.  Shakspeare,  when  young,  had,  doubtless,  all 
the  wildness  and  irregularity  of  an  ardent,  undisciplined,  and  undi 
rected  genius.  The  poetic  temperament  has  naturally  something 
in  it  of  the  vagabond.  When  left  to  itself  it  runs  loosely  and  wildly, 
and  delights  in  everything  eccentric  and  licentious.  It  is  often  a 
turn-up  of  a  die,  in  the  gambling  freaks  of  fate,  whether  a  natural 
genius  shall  turn  out  a  great  rogue  or  a  great  poet ;  and  had  not 
Shakspeare' s  mind  fortunately  taken  a  literary  bias,  he  might  have 
as  daringly  transcended  all  civil,  as  he  has  all  dramatic  laws. 

I   have  little  doubt  that,  in  early  life,  when  running,  like  an 

unbroken  colt,  about  the  neighborhood  of  Stratford,  he  was  to  be 

found  in  the  company  of  all  kinds  of  odd,  anomalous  characters ; 

that  he  associated  with  all  the  madcaps  of  the  place,  and  was  one 

*  The  following  is  the  only  stanza  extant  of  this  lampoon  :— 

A  parliament  member,  a  justice  of  peace, 
At  home  a  poor  scarecrow,  at  London  an  asse, 
If  lovvsie  is  Lucy,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  Lucy  is  lowsie,  whatever  befall  it. 

He  thinks  himself  great ; 

Yet  an  asse  in  his  state, 
We  allow  by  kis  ears  but  with  asses  to  mate, 
If  Lucy  is  lowsie,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  sing  lowsie  Lucy  whatever  befall  it. 

f  The  luee  i»  a  pik«  or  jack,  and  abounds  in  the  Avon  about  Charlecot, 


208  THE  SKETCH-B  O  OK. 

of  those  unlucky  urchins,  at  mention  of  whom  old  men  shake  their 
heads,  and  predict  that  they  will  one  day  come  to  the  gallows,  To 
him  the  poaching  in  Sir  Thomas  Lucy's  park  was,  doubtless,  like  a 
foray  to  a  Scottish  knight,  and  struck  his  eager,  and,  as  yet 
untamed,  imagination,  as  something  delightfully  adventurous.* 

The  old  mansion  of  Charlecot  and  its  surrounding  park  still 
remain  in  the  possession  of  the  Lucy  family,  and  are  peculiarly 
interesting,  from  being  connected  with  this  whimsical  but  eventful 
circumstance  in  the  scanty  history  of  the  bard.  As  the  house 
stood  but  little  more  than  three  miles  distance  from  Stratford,  I 
resolved  to  pay  it  a  pedestrian  visit,  that  I  might  stroll  leisurely 
through  some  of  those  scenes  from  which  Shakspeare  must  have 
derived  his  earliest  ideas  of  rural  imagery. 

The  country  was  yet  naked  and  leafless  ;  but  English  scenery  is 
always  verdant,  and  the  sudden  change  in  the  temperature  of  the 
weather  was  surprising  in  its  quickening  effects  upon  the  land 
scape.  It  was  inspiring  and  animating  to  witness  this  first  awak 
ening  of  spring ;  to  feel  its  warm  breath  stealing  over  the  senses  ; 
to  see  the  moist,  mellow  earth  beginning  to  put  forth  the  green 
sprout  and  the  tender  blade :  and  the  trees  and  shrubs,  in  their 
reviving  tints  and  bursting  buds,  giving  the  promise  of  returning 
foliage  and  flower.  The  cold  snow-drop,  that  little  borderer  on  the 
skirts  of  winter,  was  to  be  seen  with  its  chaste,  white  blossoms  in 
the  small  gardens  before  the  cottages.  The  bleating  of  the  new- 
dropt  lambs  was  faintly  heard  from  the  fields.  The  sparrow  twit 
tered  about  the  thatched  eaves  and  budding  hedges;  the  robin 

*  A  proof  of  Shakspeare's  random  habits  and  associates  in  his  youthful  days 
may  be  found  in  a  traditionary  anecdote,  picked  up  at  Stratford  by  the  elder 
Ireland,  and  mentioned  in  his  "  Picturesque  Views  on  the  Avon." 

About  seven  miles  from  Stratford  lies  the  thirsty  little  market  town  of  Bed 
ford,  famous  for  its  ale.  Two  societies  of  the  village  yeomanry  used  to  meet, 
under  the  appellation  of  the  Bedford  topers,  and  to  challenge  the  lovers  of 
good  ale  of  the  neighboring  villages  to  a  contest  of  drinking.  Arnong  others, 
the  people  of  Stratford  were  called  out  to  prove  the  strength  of  their  heads ; 
and  in  the  number  of  the  champions  was  Shakspeare,  who,  in  spite  of  the 
proverb  that  "they  who  drink  beer  will  think  beer,"  was  as  true  to  his  ale  as 
Falstaff  to  his  sack.  The  chivalry  of  Stratford  was  staggered  at  the  first  onset, 
and  sounded  a  retreat  while  they  had  vet  legs  to  carry  them  off  the  field.  They 
had  scarcely  marched  a  mile  when,  their  legs  failing  them,  they  were  forced 
to  lie  down  under  a  crab-tree,  where  they  passed  the  night.  It  is  still  stand 
ing,  and  goes  by  the  name  of  Shakspeare's  tree. 

In  the  morning  his  companions  awaked  the  bard,  and  proposed  returning  to 
Bedford,  but  he  declined,  saying  he  had  had  enough,  having  drank  with 

Piping  Pebworth,  Dancing  Marston, 
Haunted  Hilbro',  Hungry  Grafton, 
Dudging  Exhall,  Papist  Wicksforci, 
Beggarly  Broom,  and  Drunken  Bedford 

"The  villages  here  alluded  to,"  says  Ireland,  "still  bear  the  epithets  thus 
given  them:  the  people  of  Pebworth  are  still  filmed  for  their  skill  on  the  pipe 
and  tabor ;  Hilborough  is  now  called  Haunted  Hilborough ;  and  Grafton  id 
famous  for  the  poverty  of  its  soil." 


STRA  TFORD-  ON- A  VON.  209 

threw  a  livelier  note  into  his  late  querulous  wintry  strain  ;  and  the 
lark,  springing  up  from  the  reeking  bosom  of  the  meadow,  towered 
away  into  the  bright,  fleecy  cloud,  pouring  forth  torrents  of  melody. 
As  I  watched  the  little  songster,  mounting  up  higher  and  higher, 
until  his  body  was  a  mere  speck  on  the  white  bosom  of  the  cloud, 
while  the  ear  was  still  filled  with  his  music,  it  called  to  mind  Shak- 
speare's  exquisite  little  song  in  Cymbeline : 

Hark !  hark!   the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs, 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies. 

And  winking  mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes; 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  bin, 

My  lady  sweet  arise ! 

Indeed,  the  whole  country  about  here  is  poetic  ground  :  every 
thing  is  associated  with  the  idea  of  Shakspeare.  Every  old  cottage 
that  I  saw,  I  fancied  into  some  resort  of  his  boyhood,  where  he  had 
acquired  his  intimate  knowledge  of  rustic  life  and  manners,  and 
heard  those  legendary  tales  and  wild  superstitions  which  he  has 
woven  like  witchcraft  into  his  dramas.  For  in  his  time,  we  are 
told,  it  was  a  popular  amusement  in  winter  evenings  "  to  sit  round 
the  fire,  and  tell  merry  tales  of  errant  knights,  queens,  lovers, 
lords,  ladies,  giants,  dwarfs,  thieves,  cheaters,  witches,  fairies,  gob 
lins  and  friars."* 

My  route  for  a  part  of  the  way  lay  in  sight  of  the  Avon,  which 
made  a  variety  of  the  most  fancy  doublings  and  windings  through 
a  wide  and  fertile  valley ;  sometimes  glittering  from  among  wil 
lows,  which  fringed  its  borders;  sometimes  disappearing  among 
groves,  or  beneath  green  banks ;  and  sometimes  rambling  out  into 
full  view,,  and  making  an  azure  sweep  round  a  slope  of  meadow 
land.  This  beautiful  bosom  of  country  is  called  the  Vale  of  the 
Red  Horse.  A  distant  line  of  undulating  blue  hills  seems  to  be  its 
boundary,  whilst  all  the  soft,  intervening  landscape  lies  in  a  manner 
enchained  in  the  silver  links  of  the  Avon. 

After  pursuing  the  road  for  about  three  miles,  I  turned  off  into  a 
footpath,  which  led  along  the  borders  of  fields,  and  under  hedge- 

*  Scot,  in  his  "Discoverie  of  Witchcraft,"  enumerates  a  host  of  these  fireside 
fancies.  "And  they  have  so  fraid  us  with  bull-beggars,  spirits,  witches,  urch 
ins,  elves,  hags,  fairies,  satyrs,  pans,  faunes,  syrens,  kit  with  the  can  sticke,  • 
tritons,  centaurs,  dwarfes,  giantes,  imps,  calcars,  conjurors,  nymphes,  change 
lings,  incubus,  Robin-good-fellow,  the  spoorne,  the  mare,  the  man  in  the  oke, 
the  hell-waine,  the  fler  drake,  the  puckle,  Tom  Thombe,  hobgoblins,  Tom 
Tumbler,  boneless,  and  such,  otlier  bugs,  that  we  were  afraid  of  our  own 
ghadowes." 


2io  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

rows  to  a  private  gate  of  the  park ;  there  was  a  stile,  however,  foi 
the  benefit  of  the  pedestrian ;  there  being  a  public  right  of  way 
through  the  grounds.  I  delight  in  these  hospitable  estates,  in  which 
every  one  has  a  kind  of  property — at  least,  as  far  as  the  footpath  is 
concerned.  It  in  some  measure  reconciles  a  poor  man  to  his  lot, 
and,  what  is  more,  to  the  better  lot  of  his  neighbor,  thus  to  have 
parks  and  pleasure-grounds  thrown  open  for  his  recreation.  He 
breathes  the  pure  air  as  freely,  and  lolls  as  luxuriously  under  the 
shade,  as  the  lord  of  the  soil ;  and  if  he  has  not  the  privilege  of 
calling  all  that  he  sees  his  own,  he  has  not,  at  the  same  time,  the 
trouble  of  paying  for  it,  and  keeping  it  in  order. 

I  now  found  myself  among  noble  avenues  of  oaks  and  elms, 
whose  vast  size  bespoke  the  growth  of  centuries.  The  wind  sounded 
solemnly  among  their  branches,  and  the  rooks  cawed  from  their 
hereditary  nests  in  the  tree  tops.  The  eye  ranged  through  a  long, 
lessening  vista,  with  nothing  to  interrupt  the  view  but  a  distant 
statue  ;  and  a  vagrant  deer  stalking  like  a  shadow  across  the 
opening. 

There  is  something  about  these  stately  old  avenues  that  has  the 
effect  of  Gothic  architecture,  not  merely  from  the  pretended  simi 
larity  of  form,  but  from  their  bearing  the  evidence  of  long  duration, 
and  of  having  had  their  origin  in  a  period  of  time  with  which  we 
associate  ideas  of  romantic  grandeur.  They  betoken,  also,  the  long- 
settled  dignity,  and  proudly-concentrated  independence  of  an 
ancient  family  ;  and  I  have  heard  a  worthy  but  aristocratic  old 
friend  observe,  when  speaking  of  the  sumptuous  palaces  of  modern 
gentry,  that  "money  could  do  much  with  stone  and  mortar,  but, 
thank  Heaven,  there  was  no  such  thing  as  suddenly  building  up 
an  avenue  of  oaks." 

It  was  from  wandering  in  early  life  among  this  rich  scenery,  and 
about  the  romantic  solitudes  of  the  adjoining  park  of  Fullbroke, 
which  then  formed  a  part  of  the  Lucy  estate,  that  some  of  Shak- 
speare's  commentators  have  supposed  he  derived  his  noble  forest 
meditations  of  Jaques,  and  the  enchanting  woodland  pictures  in 
"  As  you  like  it."  It  is  in  lonely  wanderings  through  such  scenes, 
that  the  mind  drinks  deep  but  quiet  draughts  of  inspiration,  and 
becomes  intensely  sensible  of  the  beauty  and  majesty  of  nature. 
The  imagination  kindles  into  reverie  and  rapture  ;  vague  but 
exquisite  images  and  ideas  keep  breaking  upon  it ;  and  we  revel  in 
a  mute  and  almost  incommunicable  luxury  of  thought.  It  was  in 
some  such  mood,  and,  perhaps,  under  one  of  those  very  trees  before 
me,  which  threw  their  broad  shades  over  the  grassy  banks  and 
quivering  waters  of  the  Avon,  that  the  poet's  fancy  may  have 


STRA  7 FORD-  ON- A  VON.  a  i  v 

sallied  forth  into  that  little  song  which  breathes  the  very  soul  of  a 

rural  voluptuary : 

Under  the  green  wood  tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  throat 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  note, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither. 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

I  had  now  come  in  sight  of  the  house.  It  is  a  large  building  of 
brick,  with  stone  quoins,  and  is  in  the  Gothic  style  of  Queen  Eliza 
beth's  day,  having  been  built  in  the  first  year  of  her  reign.  The 
exterior  remains  very  nearly  in  its  original  state,  and  may  be  con 
sidered  a  fair  specimen  of  the  residence  of  a  wealthy  country 
gentleman  of  those  days.  A  great  gateway  opens  from  the  park 
into  a  kind  of  courtyard  in  front  of  the  house,  ornamented  with  a 
grass-plot,  shrubs,  and  flower-beds.  The  gateway  is  in  imitation 
of  the  ancient  barbacan ;  being  a  kind  of  outpost,  and  flanked  by 
towers ;  though  evidently  for  mere  ornament,  instead  of  defence. 
The  front  of  the  house  is  completely  in  the  old  style ;  with  stone- 
shafted  casements,  a  great  bow-window  of  heavy  stone-work,  and 
a  portal  with  armorial  bearings  over  it,  carved  in  stone.  At  each 
corner  of  the  building  is  an  octagon  tower,  surmounted  by  a  gilt 
ball  and  weather-cock. 

The  Avon,  which  winds  through  the  park,  makes  a  bend  just  at 
the  foot  of  a  gently-sloping  bank,  which  sweeps  down  from  the  rear 
of  the  house.  Large  herds  of  deer  were  feeding  or  reposing  upon 
its  borders  ;  and  swans  were  sailing  majestically  upon  its  bosom. 
As  I  contemplated  the  venerable  orid  mansion,  I  called  to  mind 
Falstaff's  encomium  on  Justice  Shallow's  abode,  and  the  affected 
indifference  and  real  vanity  of  the  latter : 

"  Falstaff.     You  have  a  goodly  dwelling  and  a  rich. 
Shallow.     Barren,  barren,  barren  ;  beggars  all,  beggars  all,  Sir 
John: — marry,  good  air." 

What  have  may  have  been  the  joviality  of  the  old  mansion  in 
the  days  of  Shakspeare,  it  had  now  an  air  of  stillness  and  solitude. 
The  great  iron  gateway  that  opened  into  the  courtyard  was  locked  ; 
there  was  no  show  of  servants  bustling  about  the  place  ;  the  deer 
gazed  quietly  at  me  as  I  passed,  being  no  longer  harried  by  the 
moss-troopers  of  Stratford.  The  only  sign  of  domestic  life  that  I 


2 1 2  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

met  with  was  a  white  cat,  stealing  with  wary  look  and  stealthy  pace 
towards  the  stables,  as  if  on  some  nefarious  expedition.  I  must  not 
omit  to  mention  the  carcass  of  a  scoundrel  crow  which  I  saw  sus 
pended  against  the  barn  wall,  as  it  shows  that  the  Lucys  still  inherit 
that  lordly  abhorrence  of  poachers,  and  maintain  that  rigorous 
exercise  of  territorial  power  which  was  so  strenuously  manifested  in 
the  case  of  the  bard. 

After  prowling  about  for  some  time,  I  at  length  found  my  way 
to  a  lateral  portal,  which  was  the  every-day  entrance  to  the  man 
sion.     I    was  courteously  received  by  a  worthy  old  housekeeper, 
who,  with  the  civility  and  communicativeness  of  her  order,  showed 
me  the  interior  of  the  house.     The  greater  part  has  undergone 
alterations,  and  been  adapted  to  modern  tastes  and  modes  of  liv 
ing  :  there  is  a  fine  old  oaken  staircase ;  and  the  great  hall,  that 
noble  feature  in  an  ancient  manor-house,  still  retains  much  of  the 
appearance  it  must  have  had  in  the  days  of  Shakspeare.     The  ceil 
ing  is  arched  and  lofty  ;  and  at  one  end  is  a  gallery  in  which  stands 
an  organ.     The  weapons  and  trophies  of  the  chase,  which  formerly 
adorned  the  hall  of  a  country  gentleman,  have  made  way  for  family 
portraits.     There  is  a  wide,  hospitable  fireplace,  calculated  for  an 
ample,  old-fashioned  wood  fire,  formerly  the  rallying-place  of  winter 
festivity.     On  the  opposite  side  of  the  hall  is  the  huge  Gothic  bow- 
window,  with   stone   shafts,  which  looks  out  upon  the  courtyard. 
Here  are  emblazoned  in  stained  glass  the  armorial  bearings  of  the 
Lucy  family  for  many  generations,  some  being  dated  in  1558.     I 
was  delighted  to  observe  in  the  quarterings  the  three  white  luces, 
by  which  the  character  of  Sir  Thomas  was  first  identified  with  that 
of  Justice  Shallow.     They  are  mentioned  in  the  first  scene  of  the 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  where  the  Justice  is  in  a  rage  with  Fal- 
staff  for  having  "beaten  his  men,  killed  his  deer,  and  broken  into 
his  lodge."     The  poet  had  no  doubt  the  offences  of  himself  and  his 
comrades  in  mind   at   the   time,  and  we  may  suppose  the  family 
pride  and  vindictive  threats  of  the  puissant  Shallow  to  be  a  carica 
ture  of  the  pompous  indignation  of  Sir  Thomas. 

"Shallow.  Sir  Hugh,  persuade  me  not:  I  will  make  a  Star- 
Chamber  matter  of  it ;  if  he  were  twenty  John  Falstaffs,  he  shall 
not  abuse  Sir  Robert  Shallow,  Esq. 

Slender.     In  the  county  of  Gloster,  justice  of  peace,  and  coram. 

Shallow.     Ay,  cousin  Slender,  and  custalorum. 

Slender.  Ay,  and  ratalorum  too,  and  a  gentleman  born,  master 
parson ;  who  writes  himself  Armigero  in  any  bill,  warrant,  quit 
tance,  or  obligation,  Armigero. 

Shallow.  Ay,  that  I  do  •  and  have  done  any  time  these  three 
hundred  years. 


STRA  TFORD-ON-A  VON.  213 

Slender.  All  his  successors  gone  before  him  have  done't,  and  cil 
his  ancestors  that  come  after  him  may  ;  they  may  give  the  dozen 
white  luces  in  their  coat.***** 

Shallow.     The  council  shall  hear  it ;   it  is  a  riot. 

Evans.  It  is  not  meet  the  council  hear  of  a  riot ;  there  is  no  fear 
of  Got  in  a  riot ;  the  council,  hear  you,  shall  desire  to  hear  the  fear 
of  Got,  and  not  to  hear  a  riot ;  take  your  vizaments  in  that. 

Shallow.  Ha !  o'  my  life,  if  I  were  young  again,  the  sword 
should  end  it!  " 

Near  the  window  thus  emblazoned  hung  a  portrait  by  Sir  Peter 
Lely,  of  one  of  the  Lucy  family,  a  great  beauty  of  the  time  of 
Charles  the  Second  :  the  old  housekeeper  shook  her  head  as  she 
pointed  to  the  picture,  and  informed  me  that  this  lady  had  been 
sadly  addicted  to  cards,  and  had  gambled  away  a  great  portion  of 
the  family  estate,  among  which  was  that  part  of  the  park  where 
Shakspeare  and  his  comrades  had  killed  the  deer.  The  lands  thus 
lost  had  not  been  entirely  regained  by  the  family  even  at  the  pres 
ent  day.  It  is  but  justice  to  this  recreant  dame  to  confess  that  she 
had  a  surpassingly  fine  hand  and  arm. 

The  picture  which  most  attracted  my  attention  was  a  great  paint* 
ng  over  the  fireplace,  containing  likenesses  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy 
and  his  family,  who  inhabited  the  hall  in  the  latter  part  of  Shak 
speare' s  lifetime.  I  at  first  thought  that  it  was  the  vindictive  knight 
himself,  but  the  housekeeper  assured  me  that  it  was  his  son ;  the 
only  likeness  extant  of  the  former  being  an  effigy  upon  his  tomb  in 
the  church  of  the  neighboring  hamlet  of  Charlecot.*  The  picture 
gives  a  lively  idea  of  the  costume  and  manners  of  the  time.  Sir 
Thomas  is  dressed  in  ruff  and  doublet ;  white  shoes  with  roses  in 
them  ;  and  has  a  peaked  yellow,  or,  as  Master  Slender  would  say, 
"a  cane-colored  beard."  His  lady  is  seated  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  picture,  in  wide  ruff  and  long  stomacher,  and  the  children 

*Tlris  effigy  is  in  white  marble,  and  represents  the  Knight  in  complete 
armor.  Near  him  lies  the  effigy  of  his  wife,  and  on  her  tomb  is  the  following 
inscription ;  which,  if  really  composed  by  her  husband,  places  him  quite  above 
the  intellectual  level  of  Master  Shallow  : 

Here  lyeth  the  Lady  Joyce  Lucy  wife  of  Sr  Thomas  Lucy  of  Charlecot  in  ye 
county  of  Warwick,  Knight,  Daughter  and  heir  of  Thomas  Acton  of  Sutton  in 
ye  county  of  Worcester  Esquire  who  departed  out  of  this  wretched  world  to 
her  heavenly  kingdom  ye  10  day  of  February  in  ye  yeare  of  our  Lord  God  1595 
and  of  her  age  60  and  three.  All  the  time  of  her  lyfe  a  true  and  faythful  ser 
vant  of  her  good  God,  never  detected  of  any  cryme  or  vice.  In  religion  most 
sounde,  in  love  to  her  husband  most  faythful  and  true.  In  friendship  most 
constant ;  to  what  in  trust  was  committed  unto  her  most  secret.  In  wisdom 
excelling.  In  governing  of  her  house,  bringing  up  of  youth  in  ye  fear  of  God 
that  did  converse  with  ner  moste  rare  and  singular.  A  great  maintayner  of 
hospitality.  Greatly  esteemed  of  her  betters ;  misliked  of  none  unless  of  the 
envyous.  When  all  is  spoken  that  can  be  saide  a  woman  so  garnished  with 
virtue  as  not  to  be  bettered  and  hardly  to  be  equalled  by  any.  As  shee  lived 
most  virtuously  so  shee  died  most  Godly.  Set  downe  by  him  yt  best  did  knovve 
what  hath  byii  written  to  be  true. 

Thomas  Lucye. 


214  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

have  a  most  venerable  stiffness  and  formality  of  dress.  Hounds 
and  spaniels  are  mingled  in  the  family  group  ;  a  hawk  is  seated  on 
his  perch  in  the  foreground,  and  one  of  the  children  holds  a  bow  ; 
— all  intimating  the  knight's  skill  in  hunting,  hawking,  and  archery 
— so  indispensable  to  an  accomplished  gentleman  in  those  days.* 

I  regretted  to  find  that  the  ancient  furniture  of  the  hall  had  dis 
appeared  ;  for  I  had  hoped  to  meet  with  the  stately  elbow-chair  of 
carved  oak,  in  which  the  county  squire  of  former  days  was  wont  to 
sway  the  sceptre  of  empire  over  his  rural  domains  ;  and  in  which 
it  might  be  presumed  the  redoubted  Sir  Thomas  sat  enthroned  in 
awful  state  when  the  recreant  Shakspeare  was  brought  before  him. 
As  I  like  to  deck  out  pictures  for  my  own  entertainment,  I  pleased 
myself  with  the  idea  that  this  very  hall  had  been  the  scene  of  the 
unlucky  bard's  examination  on  the  morning  after  his  captivity  in 
the  lodge.  I  fancied  to  myself  the  rural  potentate,  surrounded  by 
h;s  body-guard  of  butlers,  pages,  and  blue-coated  serving-men, 
w.th  their  badges  ;  while  the  luckless  culprit  was  brought  in,  for 
lorn  and  chopfallen,  in  the  custody  of  gamekeepers,  huntsmen, 
and  whippers-in,  and  followed  by  a  rabble  rout  of  country  clowns. 
I  fancied  bright  faces  of  curious  housemaids  peeping  from  the  half- 
opened  doors ;  while  from  the  gallery  the  fair  daughters  of  the 
knight  leaned  gracefully  forward,  eyeing  the  youthful  prisoner  with 
that  pity  "  that  dwells  in  womanhood."  Who  would  have  thought 
that  this  poor  varlet,  thus  trembling  before  the  brief  authority  of  a 
county  squire,  and  the  sport  of  rustic  boors,  was  soon  to  become  the 
delight  of  princes,  the  theme  of  all  tongues  and  ages,  the  dictator 
to  the  human  mind,  and  was  to  confer  immortality  on  his  oppressor 
by  a  caricature  and  a  lampoon  ! 

I  was  now  invited  by  the  butler  to  walk  into  the  garden,  and  1 
felt  inclined  to  visit  the  orchard  and  arbor  where  the  justice  treated 
Sir  John  Falstaff  and  Cousin  Silence  "to  a  last  year's  pippin  of  his 
own  grafting,  with  a  dish  of  caraways; "  but  I  had  already  spent  so 
much  of  the  day  in  my  ramblings  that  I  was  obliged  to  give  up  any 
further  investigations.  When  about  to  take  my  leave  I  was  grati 
fied  by  the  civil  entreaties  of  the  housekeeper  and  butler,  that  I 
would  take  some  refreshment :  an  instance  of  good  old  hospitality 

*  Bishop  Earle,  speaking  of  the  country  gentleman  of  his  time,  observes, 
"his  housekeeping  is  seen  much  in  the  different  families  of  dogs,  and  serving- 
men  attendant  on  their  kennels ;  and  the  deepness  of  their  throats  is  the  depth 
of  his  discourse.  A  hawk  he  esteems  the  true  burden  of  nobility,  and  is  ex 
ceedingly  ambitions  to  seem  delighted  with  the  sport,  and  have  his  fist  gloved 
with  his  jesses."  And  Gilpin,  in  his  description  of  a  Mr.  Hastings,  remarks, 
"he  kept  all  sorts  of  hounds  that  run  buck,  fox,  hare,  otter,  and  badger;  and 
had  hawks  of  all  kinds  both  long  and  short  winged.  His  great  hall  was  com 
monly  strewed  with  marrow-bones,  and  full  of  hawk  perches,  hounds,  spaniels, 
and  terriers.  On  a  broad  hearth,  paved  with  brick,  lay  some  of  the  choicest 
terriers,  bounds,  and  spaniels." 


STRA  TFORD-ON-A  VON.  21$ 

which,  I  grieve  to  say,  we  castle-hunters  seldom  meet  with  in 
modern  days.  I  make  no  doubt  it  is  a  virtue  which  the  present 
representative  of  the  Lucys  inherits  from  his  ancestors ;  for  Shak- 
speare,  even  in  his  caricature,  makes  Justice  Shallow  importunate 
in  this  respect,  as  witness  his  pressing  instances  to  Falstaff. 

"By  cock  and  pye,  sir,  you  shall  not  away  to-night  * 
will  not  excuse  you;  you  shall  not  be  excused;  excuses  shall  not 
be  admitted;  there  is  no  excuse  shall  serve;  you  shall  not  be 
excused  *  *  *  Some  pigeons,  Davy;  a  couple  of  short-legged 
hens;  a  joint  of  mutton;  and  any  pretty  little  tiny  kickshaws,  tell 
William  Cook." 

I  now  bade  a  reluctant  farewell  to  the  old  hall.  My  mind  had 
become  so  completely  possessed  by  the  imaginary  scenes  and  char 
acters  connected  with  it,  that  I  seemed  to  be  actually  living  among 
them.  Every  thing  brought  them,  as  it  were,  before  my  eyes;  and 
as  the  door  of  the  dining-room  opened,  I  almost  expected  to  hear 
the  feeble  voice  of  Master  Silence  quavering  forth  his  favorite  ditty : 

"  'Tis  merry  in  hall,  when  beards  wag  all, 
And  welcome  merry  shrove-tide ! ' ' 

On  returning  to  my  inn,  I  could  not  but  reflect  on  the  singular 
gift  of  the  poet;  to  be  able  thus  to  spread  the  magic  of  his  mind 
over  trie  very  face  of  nature ;  to  give  to  things  and  places  a  charm 
and  character  not  their  own,  and  to  turn  this  "working-day  world" 
into  a  perfect  fairy  land.  He  is,  indeed,  the  true  enchanter,  whose 
spell  operates,  not  upon  the  senses,  but  upon  the  imagination  and 
the  heart.  Under  the  wizard  influence  of  Shakspeare  I  had  been 
walking  all  day  in  a  complete  delusion.  I  had  surveyed  the  land 
scape  through  the  prism  of  poetry,  which  tinged  every  object  with 
the  hues  of  the  rainbow.  I  had  been  surrounded  with  fancied 
beings;  with  mere  airy  nothings,  conjured  up  by  poetic  power;  yet 
which,  to  me,  had  all  the  charm  of  reality.  I  had  heard  Jaques 
soliloquize  beneath  his  oak :  had  beheld  the  fair  Rosalind  and  her 
companion  adventuring  through  the  woodlands;  and,  above  all, 
had  been  once  more  present  in  spirit  with  fat  Jack  Falstaff  and 
his  contemporaries,  from  the  august  Justice  Shallow,  down  to  the 
gentle  Master  Slender  and  the  sweet  Anne  Page.  Ten  thousand 
honors  and  blessings  on  the  bard  who  has  thus  gilded  the  dull 
realities  of  life  with  innocent  illusions;  who  has  spread  exquisite 
and  unbought  pleasures  in  my  chequered  path;  and  beguiled  my 
spirit  in  many  a  lonely  hour,  with  all  the  cordial  and  cheerful 
sympathies  of  social  life ! 


Si6  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

As  I  crossed  the  bridge  over  the  Avon  on  my  return,  I  paused 
to  contemplate  the  distant  church  in  which  the  poet  lies  buried, 
and  could  not  but  exult  in  the  malediction,  which  ha?  kept  his 
ashes  undisturbed  in  its  quiet  and  hallowed  vaults.  What  honor 
could  his  name  have  derived  from  being  mingled  in  dusty  com 
panionship  with  the  epitaphs  and  escutcheons  and  venal  eulogiums 
of  a  titled  multitude?  What  would  a  crowded  corner  in  Westmin 
ster  Abbey  have  been,  compared  with  this  reverend  pile,  which 
seems  to  stand  in  beautiful  loneliness  as  his  sole  mausoleum! 
The  solicitude  about  the  grave  may  be  but  the  offspring  of  an  over 
wrought  sensibility;  but  human  nature  is  made  up  of  foibles  and 
prejudices ;  and  its  best  and  tenderest  affections  are  mingled  with 
these  factitious  feelings.  He  who  has  sought  renown  about  the 
world,  and  has  reaped  a  full  harvest  of  worldly  favor,  will  find, 
after  all,  that  there  is  no  love,  no  admiration,  no  applause,  se 
sweet  to  the  soul  as  that  which  springs  up  in  his  native  place.  It 
is  there  that  he  seeks  to  be  gathered  in  peace  and  honor  among 
his  kindred  and  his  early  friends.  And  when  the  weary  heart  and 
falling  head  begin  to  warn  him  that  the  evening  of  life  is  drawing 
on,  he  turns  as  fondly  as  does  the  infant  to  the  mother's  arms,  to 
sink  to  sleep  in  the  bosom  of  the  scene  of  his  childhood. 

How  would  it  have  cheered  the  spirit  of  the  youthful  bard  when, 
wandering  forth  in  disgrace  upon  a  doubtful  world,  he  cast  back  a 
heavy  look  upon  his  paternal  home,  could  he  have  foreseen  that, 
before  many  years,  he  should  return  to  it  covered  with  renown; 
that  his  name  should  become  the  boast  and  glory  of  his  native 
place;  that  his  ashes  should  be  religiously  guarded  as  its  most 
precious  treasure ;  and  that  its  lessening  spire,  on  which  his  eyes 
were  fixed  in  tearful  contemplation,  should  one  day  become  the 
beacon,  towering  amidst  the  gentle  landscape,  to  guide  the  literary 
pilgrim  of  every  nation  to  his  tomb ! 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER. 

"I  appeal  to  any  white  man  if  ever  he  entered  Logan's  cabin  hungry,  and  he 
gave  him  not  to  eat ;  if  ever  he  came  cold  and  naked,  and  he  clothed  hi: 


mnot." 
SPEECH  OF  AN  INDIAN  CHIEF. 


fpHERE  is  something  in  the  character  and  habits  of  the  North 
American  savage,  taken  in  connection  with  the  scenery  over 
which  he  is  accustomed  to  range,  its  vast  lakes,  boundless 

forests,  majestic  rivers,  and  trackless  plains,  that  is,  to  my  mind, 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER.  2i? 

wonderfully  striking  and  sublime.  He  is  formed  for  the  wilder 
ness,  as  the  Arab  is  for  the  desert.  His  nature  is  stern,  simple  and 
enduring;  fitted  to  grapple  with  difficulties,  and  to  support  priva 
tions.  There  seems  but  little  soil  in  his  heart  for  the  support  of  the 
kindly  virtue;  and  yet,  if  we  would  but  take  the  trouble  to  pene 
trate  through  that  proud  stoicism  and  habitual  taciturnity,  which 
lock  up  his  character  from  casual  observation,  we  should  find  him 
linked  to  his  fellow-man  of  civilized  life  by  more  of  those  sympa 
thies  and  affections  than  are  usually  ascribed  to  him. 

It  has  been  the  lot  of  the  unfortunate  aborigines  of  America,  in 
the  early  periods  of  colonization,  to  be  doubly  wronged  by  the 
white  men.  They  have  been  dispossessed  of  their  hereditary  pos 
sessions  by  mercenary  and  frequently  wanton  warfare  :  and  their 
characters  have  been  traduced  by  bigoted  and  interested  writers. 
The  colonist  often  treated  them  like  beasts  of  the  forest ;  and  the 
author  has  endeavored  to  justify  him  in  his  outrages.  The  former 
found  it  easier  to  exterminate  than  to  civilize  ;  the  latter  to  vilify 
than  to  discriminate.  The  appellations  of  savage  and  pagan  were 
deemed  sufficient  to  sanction  the  hostilities  of  both ;  and  thus  the 
poor  wanderers  of  the  forest  were  persecuted  and  defamed,  not 
because  they  were  guilty,  but  because  they  were  ignorant. 

The  rights  of  the  savage  have  seldom  been  properly  appreciated 
or  respected  by  the  white  man.  In  peace  he  has  too  often  been 
the  dupe  of  artful  traffic  ;  in  war  he  has  been  regarded  as  a  fero 
cious  animal,  whose  life  or  death  was  a  question  of  mere  precau 
tion  and  convenience.  Man  is  cruelly  wasteful  of  life  when  his 
own  safety  is  endangered,  and  he  is  sheltered  by  impunity ;  and 
Mttle  mercy  is  to  be  expected  from  him,  when  he  feels  the  sting  of 
the  reptile  and  is  conscious  of  the  power  to  destroy. 

The  same  prejudices,  which  were  indulged  thus  early,  exist  in 
common  circulation  at  the  present  day.  Certain  learned  societies 
have,  it  is  true,  with  laudable  diligence,  endeavored  to  investigate 
and  record  the  real  characters  and  manners  of  the  Indian  tribes  ; 
the  American  government,  too,  has  wisely  and  humanely  exerted 
itself  to  inculcate  a  friendly  and  forbearing  spirit  towards  them,  and 
to  protect  them  from  fraud  and  injustice.*  The  current  opinion  of 
the  Indian  character,  however,  is  too  apt  to  be  formed  from  the 
miserable  hordes  which  infest  the  frontiers,  and  hang  on  the  skirts 

*  The  American  government  has  been  indefatigable  in  its  exertions  to  ameli 
orate  the  situation  of  the  Indians,  andito  introduce  among  them  the  arts  of  civil 
ization,  and  civil  and  religious  knowledge.  To  protect  them  from  the  frauds 
of  the  white  traders,  no  purchase  of  land  from  them  by  individuals  is  per 
mitted  ;  nor  is  any  person  allowed  to  receive  lands  from  them  as  a  present, 
without  the  express  sanction  of  government.  Tliese  precautions  are  strictly 
enforced. 


2i8  THE  SKETCH-BOOR. 

of  the  settlements.  These  are  too  commonly  composed  of  degert. 
erate  beings,  corrupted  and  enfeebled  by  the  vices  of  society, 
without  being  benefited  by  its  civilization.  That  proud  indepen 
dence,  which  formed  the  main  pillar  of  savage  virtue,  has  been 
shaken  down,  and  the  whole  moral  fabric  lies  in  ruins.  Their 
spirits  are  humiliated  and  debased  by  a  sense  of  inferiority,  and 
their  native  courage  cowed  and  daunted  by  the  superior  knowledge 
and  power  of  their  enlightened  neighbors.  Society  has  advanced 
upon  them  like  one  of  those  withering  airs  that  will  sometimes  breed 
desolation  over  a  whole  region  of  fertility.  It  has  enervated  their 
strength,  multiplied  their  diseases,  and  superinduced  upon  their 
original  barbarity  the  low  vices  of  artificial  life.  It  has  given  them 
a  thousand  superfluous  wants,  whilst  it  has  diminished  their  means 
of  mere  existence.  It  has  driven  before  it  the  animals  of  the  chase, 
who  fly  from  the  sound  of  the  axe  and  the  smoke  of  the  settle 
ment,  and  seek  refuge  in  the  depths  of  remoter  forests  and  yet  un 
trodden  wilds.  Thus  do  we  too  often  find  the  Indians  on  our 
frontiers  to  be  the  mere  wrecks  and  remnants  of  once  powerful 
tribes,  who  have  lingered  in  the  vicinity  of  the  settlements,  and 
sunk  into  precarious  and  vagabond  existence.  Poverty,  repining 
and  hopeless  poverty,  a  canker  of  the  mind  unknown  in  savage 
life,  corrodes  their  spirits,  and  blights  every  free  and  noble  quality 
of  their  natures.  They  become  drunken,  indolent,  feeble,  thievish 
and  pusillanimous.  They  loiter  like  vagrants  about  the  settlements, 
among  spacious  dwellings  replete  with  elaborate  comforts,  which 
only  render  them  sensible  of  the  comparative  wretchedness  of  their 
own  condition.  Luxury  spreads  its  ample  board  before  their  eyes  ; 
but  they  are  excluded  from  the  banquet.  Plenty  revels  over  the 
fields  ;  but  they  are  starving  in  the  midst  of  its  abundance  :  the 
whole  wilderness  has  blossomed  into  a  garden  ;  but  they  feel  as 
reptiles  that  infest  it. 

How  different  was  their  state  while  yet  the  undisputed  lords  of 
the  soil !  Their  wants  were  few,  and  the  means  of  gratification 
within  their  reach.  They  saw  every  one  around  them  sharing  the 
same  lot,  enduring  the  same  hardships,  feeding  on  the  same 
aliments,  arrayed  in  the  same  rude  garments.  No  roof  then  rose, 
but  was  open  to  the  homeless  stranger  ;  no  smoke  curled  among 
the  trees,  but  he  was  welcome  to  sit  down  by  its  fire  and  join  the 
hunter  in  his  repast.  "  For,"  says  an  old  historian  of  New  Eng 
land,  "  their  life  is  so  void  of  care,  and  they  are  so  loving  also,  that 
they  make  use  of  those  things  they  enjoy  as  common  goods,  and 
are  therein  so  compassionate,  that  rather  than  one  should  starve 
through  want,  they  would  starve  all ;  thus  they  pass  their  time 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER.  2i9 

merrily,  not  regarding  our  pomp,  but  are  better  content  with  their 
own,  which  some  men  esteem  so  meanly  of."  Such  were  the 
Indians  whilst  in  the  pride  and  energy  of  their  primitive  natures: 
they  resembled  those  wild  plants  which  thrive  best  in  the  shades  of 
the  forest,  but  shrink  from  the  hand  of  cultivation,  and  perish 
beneath  the  influence  of  the  sun. 

In  discussing  the  savage  character,  writers  have  been  too  prone 
to  indulge  in  vulgar  prejudice  and  passionate  exaggeration,  instead 
of  the  candid  temper  of  true  philosophy.  They  have  not  suffi 
ciently  considered  the  peculiar  circumstances  in  which  the  Indians 
have  been  placed,  and  the  peculiar  principles  under  which  they 
have  been  educated.  No  being  acts  more  rigidly  from  rule  than 
the  Indian.  His  whole  conduct  is  regulated  according  to  some 
general  maxims  early  implanted  in  his  mind.  The  moral  laws  that 
govern  him  are,  to  be  sure,  but  few  ;  but  then  he  conforms  to  them 
all ; — the  white  man  abounds  in  laws  of  religion,  morals  and 
manners,  but  how  many  does  he  violate  ? 

A  frequent  ground  of  accusation  against  the  Indians  is  their  dis 
regard  of  treaties,  and  the  treachery  and  wantonness  with  which, 
in  time  of  apparent  peace,  they  will  suddenly  fly  to  hostilities.  The 
intercourse  of  the  white  men  with  the  Indians,  however,  is  too  apt 
to  be  cold,  distrustful,  oppressive  and  insulting.  They  seldom 
treat  them  with  that  confidence  and  frankness  which  are  indispen 
sable  to  real  friendship  ;  nor  is  sufficient  caution  observed  not  to 
offend  against  those  feelings  of  pride  or  superstition,  which  often 
prompts  the  Indian  to  hostility  quicker  than  mere  considerations  of 
interest.  The  solitary  savage  feels  silently,  but  acutely.  His 
sensibilities  are  not  diffused  over  so  wide  a  surface  as  those  of  the 
white  man ;  but  they  run  in  steadier  and  deeper  channels.  His 
pride,  his  affections,  his  superstitions,  are  all  directed  towards  fewer 
objects:  but  the  wounds  inflicted  on  them  are  proportion  ably 
severe,  and  furnish  motives  of  hostility  which  we  cannot  sufficiently 
appreciate.  Where  a  community  is  also  limited  in  number,  and 
forms  one  great  patriarchal  family,  as  in  an  Indian  tribe,  the  injury 
of  an  individual  is  the  injury  of  the  whole ;  and  the  sentiment  of 
vengeance  is  almost  instantaneously  diffused.  One  council  fire  is 
sufficient  for  the  discussion  and  arrangement  of  a  plan  of  hostilities. 
Here  all  the  fighting  men  and  sages  assemble.  Eloquence  and 
superstition  combine  to  inflame  the  minds  of  the  warriors.  The 
orator  awakens  their  martial  ardor,  and  they  are  wrought  up  to  a 
kind  of  religious  desperation,  by  the  visions  of  the  prophet  and  thu 
dreamer. 

An  instance  of  one  of  those  sudden  exasperations,  arising  from  a 


$56  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

motive  peculiar  to  the  Indian  character,  is  extant  in  an  old  record 
of  the  early  settlement  of  Massachusetts.  The  planters  of  Ply 
mouth  had  defaced  the  monuments  of  the  dead  at  Passonagessit, 
and  had  plundered  the  grave  of  the  Sachem's  mother  of  some 
skins  with  which  it  had  been  decorated.  The  Indians  are  remark 
able  for  the  reverence  which  they  entertain  for  the  sepulchres  of 
their  kindred.  Tribes  that  have  passed  generations  exiled  from  the 
abodes  of  their  ancestors,  when  by  chance  they  have  been  travel 
ling  in  the  vicinity,  have  been  known  to  turn  aside  from  the  high 
way,  and,  guided  by  wonderfully  accurate  tradition,  have  crossed 
the  country  for  miles  to  some  tumulus,  buried,  perhaps,  in  woods, 
where  the  bones  of  their  tribe  were  anciently  deposited  ;  and  there 
have  passed  hours  in  silent  meditation.  Influenced  by  this  sublime 
and  holy  feeling,  the  Sachem,  whose  mother's  tomb  had  been 
violated,  gathered  his  men  together,  and  addressed  them  in  the 
following  beautifully  simple  and  pathetic  harangue ;  a  curious 
specimen  of  Indian  eloquence,  and  an  affecting  instance  of  filial 
piety  in  a  savage. 

"When  last  the  glorious  light  of  all  the  sky  was  underneath  this 
globe,  and  birds  grew  silent,  I  began  to  settle,  as  my  custom  is,  to 
take  repose.  Before  mine  eyes  were  fast  closed,  methowght  I  saw 
a  vision,  at  which  my  spirit  was  much  troubled  ;  and  trembling  at 
that  doleful  sight,  a  spirit  cried  aloud,  '  Behold,  my  son,  whom  I 
have  cherished,  see  the  breasts  that  gave  thee  suck,  the  hands  that 
lapped  thee  warm,  and  fed  thee  oft.  Canst  thou  forget  to  take 
revenge  of  those  wild  people  who  have  defaced  my  monument  in  a 
despiteful  manner,  disdaining  our  antiquities  and  honorable  cus 
toms?  See,  now,  the  Sachem's  grave  lies  like  the  common  people, 
defaced  by  an  ignoble  race.  Thy  mother  doth  complain,  and  im 
plores  thy  aid  against  this  thievish  people,  who  have  newly  intruded 
on  our  land.  If  this  be  suffered,  I  shall  not  rest  quiet  in  my  ever 
lasting  habitation.'  This  said,  the  spirit  vanished,  and  I,  all  in  a 
sweat,  not  able  scarce  to  speak,  began  to  get  some  strength,  and 
recollect  my  spirits  that  were  fled,  and  determined  to  demand  your 
counsel  and  assistance." 

I  have  adduced  this  anecdote  at  some  length,  as  it  tends  to  show 
how  these  sudden  acts  of  hostility,  which  have  been  attributed  to 
caprice  and  perfidy,  may  often  arise  from  deep  and  generous 
motives,  which  our  inattention  to  Indian  character  and  customs 
prevents  our  properly  appreciating. 

Another  ground  of  violent  outcry  against  the  Indians  is  their 
barbarity  to  the  vanquished.  This  had  its  origin  partly  in  policy 
and  partly  in  superstition.  The  tribes,  though  sometimes  called 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER.  221 

nations,  were  never  so  formidable  in  their  numbers,  but  that  the  loss 
of  several  warriors  was  sensibly  felt ;  this  was  particularly  the  case 
when  they  had  been  frequently  engaged  in  warfare  ;  and  many  an 
instance  occurs  in  Indian  history,  where  a  tribe,  that  had  long  been 
formidable  to  its  neighbors,  has  been  broken  up  and  driven  away, 
by  the  capture  and  massacre  of  its  principal  righting  men.  There 
was  a  strong  temptation,  therefore,  to  the  victor  to  be  merciless  ; 
not  so  much  to  gratify  any  cruel  revenge,  as  to  provide  for  future 
security.  The  Indians  had,  also,  the  superstitious  belief,  frequent 
among  barbarous  nations,  and  prevalent  also  among  the  ancients, 
that  the  names  of  their  friends  who  had  fallen  in  battle  were 
soothed  by  the  blood  of  the  captives.  The  prisoners,  however, 
who  are  not  thus  sacrificed  are  adopted  into  their  families  in  the 
place  of  the  slain,  and  are  treated  with  the  confidence  and  affection 
of  relatives  and  friends  ;  nay,  so  hospitable  and  tender  is  their  enter 
tainment,  that  when  the  alternative  is  offered  them,  they  will  often 
prefer  to  remain  with  their  adopted  brethren,  rather  than  return  to 
the  home  and  the  friends  of  their  youth. 

The  cruelty  of  the  Indians  towards  their  prisoners  has  been 
heightened  since  the  colonization  of  the  whites.  What  was  form 
erly  a  compliance  with  policy  and  superstition,  has  been  exas 
perated  into  a  gratification  of  vengeance.  They  cannot  but  be 
sensible  that  the  white  men  are  the  usurpers  of  their  ancient  domin 
ion,  the  cause  of  their  degradation,  and  the  gradual  destroyers  of 
their  race.  They  go  forth  to  battle,  smarting  with  injuries  and 
indignities  which  they  have  individually  suffered,  and  they  are 
driven  to  madness  and  despair  by  the  wide-spreading  desolation, 
and  the  overwhelming  ru/^n  of  European  warfare.  The  whites  have 
too  frequently  set  them  an  example  of  violence,  by  burning  their 
villages,  and  laying  wa^te  their  slender  means  of  subsistence  :  and 
yet  they  wonder  that  savages  do  not  show  moderation  and  mag 
nanimity  towards  thos^  who  have  left  them  nothing  but  mere  exist 
ence  and  wretchedness. 

We  stigmatize  *he  Indians,  also,  as  cowardly  and  treacherous, 
because  they  use  stratagem  in  warfare,  in  preference  to  open  force ; 
but  in  this  they  are  fully  justified  by  their  rude  code  of  honor. 
They  are  early  taught  that  stratagem  is  praiseworthy  ;  the  bravest 
warrior  thinks  it  no  disgrace  to  lurk  in  silence,  and  take  every 
advantage  of  his  foe:  he  triumphs  in  the  superior  craft  and  sagacity 
by  which  he  has  been  enabled  to  surprise  and  destroy  an  enemy. 
Indeed,  man  is  naturally  more  prone  to  subtilty  than  open  valor, 
owing  to  his  physical  weakness  in  comparison  with  other  animals. 
They  are  endowed  with  natural  weapons  of  defence  :  with  horns. 


222  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

with  tusks,  with  hoofs  and  talons  ;  but  man  has  to  depend  on  his 
superior  sagacity.  In  all  his  encounters  with  these,  his  proper 
enemies,  he  resorts  to  stratagem ;  and  when  he  perversely  turns 
his  hostility  against  his  fellow-men,  he  at  first  continues  the  same 
subtle  mode  of  warfare. 

The  natural  principle  of  war  is  to  do  the  most  harm  to  our  enemy 
with  the  least  harm  to  ourselves  ;  and  this,  of  course,  is  to  be  effected 
by  stratagem.  That  chivalrous  courage  which  induces  us  to 
despise  the  suggestions  of  prudence,  and  to  rush  in  the  face  of 
certain  danger,  is  the  offspring  of  society,  and  produced  by  educa 
tion.  It  is  honorable,  because  it  is  in  fact  the  triumph  of  lofty 
sentiment  over  an  instinctive  repugnance  to  pain,  and  over  those 
yearnings  after  personal  ease  and  security,  which  society  has  con 
demned  as  ignoble.  It  is  kept  alive  by  pride  and  the  fear  of 
shame ;  and  thus  the  dread  of  the  real  evil  is  overcome  by  the 
superior  dread  of  an  evil  which  exists  but  in  the  imagination.  It 
has  been  cherished  and  stimulated,  also,  by  various  means.  It  has 
been  the  theme  of  spirit-stirring  song  and  chivalrous  story.  The 
poet  and  minstrel  have  delighted  to  shed  round  it  the  splendors  of 
fiction ;  and  even  the  historian  has  forgotten  the  sober  gravity  of 
narration,  and  broken  forth  into  enthusiasm  and  rhapsody  in 
its  praise.  Triumphs  and  gorgeous  pageants  have  been  its  reward: 
monuments,  on  which  art  has  exhausted  its  skill,  and  opulence  its 
treasures,  have  been  erected  to  perpetuate  a  nation's  gratitude  and 
admiration.  Thus  artificially  excited,  courage  has  risen  to  an  ex 
traordinary  and  factitious  degree  of  heroism :  and  arrayed  in  all 
the  glorious  "pomp  and  circumstance  of  war,"  this  turbulent 
quality  has  even  been  able  to  eclipse  many  of  those  quiet  but  in 
valuable  virtues,  which  silently  ennoble  the  human  character,  and 
swell  the  tide  of  human  happiness. 

But  if  courage  intrinsically  consists  in  the  defiance  of  danger  and 
pain,  the  life  of  the  Indian  is  a  continual  exhibition  of  it.  He  lives 
in  a  state  of  perpetual  hostility  and  risk.  Peril  and  adventure  are 
congenial  to  his  nature ;  or,  rather,  seem  necessary  to  arouse  his 
faculties  and  to  give  an  interest  to  his  existence.  Surrounded  by 
hostile  tribes,  whose  mode  of  warfare  is  by  ambush  and  surprisal, 
he  is  always  prepared  for  fight,  and  lives  with  his  weapons  in  his 
hands.  As  the  ship  careers  in  fearful  singleness  through  the  soli 
tudes  of  ocean ; — as  the  bird  mingles  among  clouds  and  storms, 
aud  wings  its  way,  a  mere  speck,  across  the  pathless  fields  of  air; 
— so  the  Indian  holds  his  course,  silent,  solitary,  but  undaunted, 
through  the  boundless  bosom  of  the  wilderness.  His  expeditions 
vie  in  distance  and  danger  with  the  pilgrimage  of  the  devotee, 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER.  223 

or  the  crusade  of  the  knight-errant.  He  traverses  vast  forests, 
exposed  to  the  hazards  of  lonely  sickness,  of  lurking  enemies,  and 
pining  famine.  Stormy  lakes,  those  great  inland  seas,  are  no 
obstacles  to  his  wanderings :  in  his  light  canoe  of  bark  he  sports, 
like  a  feather,  on  their  waves,  and  darts,  with  the  swiftness  of  an 
arrow,  down  the  roaring  rapids  of  the  rivers.  His  very  subsistence 
is  snatched  from  the  midst  of  toil  and  peril.  He  gains  his  food  by 
the  hardships  and  dangers  of  the  chase  :  he  wraps  himself  in  the 
spoils  of  the  bear,  the  panther  and  the  buffalo,  and  sleeps  among 
the  thunders  of  the  cataract. 

No  hero  of  ancient  or  modern  days  can  surpass  the  Indian  in  his 
lofty  contempt  of  death,  and  the  fortitude  with  which  he  sustains 
its  cruellest  infliction.  Indeed,  we  here  behold  him  rising  superior 
to  the  white  man,  in  consequence  of  his  peculiar  education.  The 
latter  rushes  to  glorious  death  at  the  cannon's  mouth  ;  the  former 
calmly  contemplates  its  approach,  and  triumphantly  endures  it, 
amidst  the  varied  torments  of  surrounding  foes  and  the  protracted 
agonies  of  fire.  He  even  takes  a  pride  in  taunting  his  persecutors, 
and  provoking  their  ingenuity  of  torture;  and  as  the  devouring 
flames  prey  on  his  very  vitals,  and  the  flesh  shrinks  from  the  sin 
ews,  he  raises  his  last  song  of  triumph,  breathing  the  defiance  of  an 
unconquered  heart,  and  invoking  the  spirits  of  his  fathers  to  witness 
that  he  dies  without  a  groan. 

Notwithstanding  the  obloquy  with  which  the  early  historians 
have  overshadowed  the  characters  of  the  unfortunate  natives,  some 
bright  gleams  occasionally  break  through,  which  throw  a  degree  of 
melancholy  lustre  on  their  memories.  Facts  are  occasionally  to  be 
met  with  in  the  rude  annals  of  the  eastern  provinces,  which,  though 
recorded  with  the  coloring  of  prejudice  and  bigotry,  yet  speak  for 
themselves ;  and  will  be  dwelt  on  with  applause  and  sympathy, 
when  prejudice  shall  have  passed  away. 

In  one  of  the  homely  narratives  of  the  Indian  wars  in  New  Eng 
land,  there  is  a  touching  account  of  the  desolation  carried  into  the 
tribe  of  the  Pequod  Indians.  Humanity  shrinks  from  the  cold 
blooded  detail  of  indiscriminate  butchery.  In  one  place  we  read 
of  the  surprisal  of  an  Indian  fort  in  the  night,  when  the  wigwams 
were  wrapped  in  flames,  and  the  miserable  inhabitants  shot  down 
and  slain  in  attempting  to  escape,  "  all  despatched  and  ended  in 
the  course  of  an  hour."  After  a  series  of  similar  transactions, 
"our  soldiers,"  as  the  historian  piously  observes,  "being 
resolved  by  God's  assistance  to  make  a  final  destruction  of  them  ;" 
the  unhappy  savages  being  hunted  from  their  homes  and  fortresses, 
and  pursued  with  fire  and  sword,  a  scanty,  but  gallant  band,  th§ 


224  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

sad  remnant  of  the  Pequod  warriors,  with  their  wives  and  children, 
took  refuge  in  a  swamp. 

Burning  with  indignation,  and  rendered  sullen  by  despair ;  with 
hearts  bursting  with  grief  at  the  destruction  of  their  tribe,  and 
spirits  galled  and  sore  at  the  fancied  ignominy  of  their  defeat,  they 
refused  to  ask  their  lives  at  the  hands  of  an  insulting  foe,  and  pre 
ferred  death  to  submission. 

As  the  night  drew  on  they  were  surrounded  in  their  dismal 
retreat,  so  as  to  render  escape  impracticable.  Thus  situated,  their 
enemy  "  plied  them  with  shot  all  the  time,  by  which  means  many 
were  killed  and  buried  in  the  mire."  In  the  darkness  and  fog  that 
preceded  the  dawn  of  day  some  few  broke  through  the  besiegers 
and  escaped  into  the  woods :  "  the  rest  were  left  to  the  conquerors, 
of  which  many  were  killed  in  the  swamp,  like  sullen  dogs  who 
would  rather,  in  their  self-willedness  and  madness,  sit  still  and  be 
shot  through,  or  cut  to  pieces,"  than  implore  for  mercy.  When 
the  day  broke  upon  this  handful  of  forlorn  but  dauntless  spirits,  the 
soldiers,  we  are  told,  entering  the  swamp,  "  saw  several  heaps  of 
them  sitting  close  together,  upon  whom  they  discharged  their 
pieces,  laden  with  ten  or  twelve  pistol  bullets  at  a  time,  putting  the 
muzzles  of  the  pieces  under  the  boughs,  within  a  few  yards  of  them; 
so  as,  besides  those  that  were  found  dead,  many  more  were  killed 
and  sunk  into  the  mire,  and  never  were  minded  more  by  friend 
or  foe." 

Can  any  one  read  this  plain,  unvarnished  tale  without  admiring 
the  stern  resolution,  the  unbending  pride,  the  loftiness  of  spirit,  that 
seemed  to  nerve  the  hearts  of  these  self-taught  heroes,  and  to  raise 
them  above  the  instinctive  feelings  of- human  nature?  When  the 
Gauls  laid  waste  the  city  of  Rome,  they  found  the  senators  clothed 
in  their  robes,  and  seated  with  stern  tranquillity  in  their  curule 
chairs;  in  this  manner  they  suffered  death  without  resistance  or 
even  supplication.  Such  conduct  was,  in  them,  applauded  as 
noble  and  magnanimous ;  in  the  hapless  Indian  it  was  reviled  as 
obstinate  and  sullen !  How  truly  are  we  the  dupes  of  show  and 
circumstance!  How  different  is  virtue,  clothed  in  purple  and 
enthroned  in  state,  from  virtue,  naked  and  destitute,  and  perishing 
obscurely  in  a  wilderness  ! 

But  I  forbear  to  dwell  on  these  gloomy  pictures.  The  eastern 
tribes  have  long  since  disappeared  ;  the  forests  that  sheltered  them 
have  been  laid  low,  and  scarce  any  traces  remain  of  them  in  the 
thickly-settled  states  of  New  England,  excepting  here  and  there 
the  Indian  name  of  a  village  or  a  stream.  And  such  must,  sooner 
gr  later,  be  the  fatt  of  those  other  tribes  which  skirt  the  frontiers, 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  225 

and  have  occasionally  been  inveigled  from  their  forests  to  mingle 
in  the  wars  of  white  men.  In  a  little  while,  and  they  will  go  the 
way  that  their  brethren  have  gone  before.  The  few  hordes  which 
still  linger  about  the  shores  of  Huron  and  Superior,  and  the  tribu 
tary  streams  of  the  Mississippi,  will  share  the  fate  of  those  tribew 
that  once  spread  over  Massachusetts  and  Connecticut,  and  lorded 
it  along  the  proud  banks  of  the  Hudson ;  of  that  gigantic  race  said 
to  have  existed  on  the  borders  of  the  Susquehanna ;  and  of  those 
various  nations  that  flourished  about  the  Potomac  and  the  Rappa- 
hannock,  and  that  peopled  the  forests  of  the  vast  valley  of  Shen- 
andoah.  They  will  vanish  like  a  vapor  from  the  face  of  the  earth; 
their  very  history  will  be  lost  in  forge tfulness ;  and  "  the  places 
that  now  know  them  will  know  them  no  more  forever."  Or  if,  per 
chance,  some  dubious  memorial  of  them  should  survive,  it  may  be 
in  the  romantic  dreams  -of  the  poet,  to  people  in  imagination  his 
glades  and  groves,  like  the  fauns  and  satyrs  and  sylvan  deities  of 
antiquity.  But  should  he  venture  upon  the  dark  story  of  theil 
wrongs  and  wretchedness ;  should  he  tell  how  they  were  invaded 
corrupted,  despoiled,  driven  from  their  native  abodes  and  the  sep 
ulchres  of  their  fathers,  hunted  like  wild  beasts  about  the  earth, 
and  sent  down  with  violence  and  butchery  to  the  grave,  posterity 
will  either  turn  with  horror  and  incredulity  from  the  tale,  or  blush 
with  indignation  at  the  inhumanity  of  their  forefathers.  "  We  are 
driven  back,"  said  an  old  warrior,  "  until  we  can  retreat  no  farther 
— our  hatchets  are  broken,  our  bows  are  snapped,  our  fires  arc 
nearly  extinguished  : — a  little  longer,  and  the  white  man  will  cease 
to  persecute  us — for  we  shall  cease  to  exist ! " 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET. 

AN  INDIAN   MEMOIR. 

As  monumental  bronze  unchanged  his  look: 
A  soul  that  pity  touch'd,  but  never  shook : 
Train'd  from  his  tree-rock'd  cradle  to  his  bier 
The  fierce  extremes  of  good  and  ill  to  brook 
Impassive— fearing  but  the  shame  of  fear— 
A  stoic  of  the  woods— a  man  without  a  tear. 

CAMPBELL. 

ris  to  be  regretted  that  those  early  writers,  who  treated  of  the 
discovery  and  settlement  of  America,  have  not  given  us  more 
particular  and  candid  accounts  of  the  remarkable  characters 
that  flourished   in   savage  life.     The  scanty  anecdotes  which  have 
reached  us  are  full  of  peculiarity  and  interest;  they  furnish  us  with 
8 


B26  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

nearer  glimpses  of  human  nature,  and  show  what  man  is  in  a  com 
paratively  primitive  state,  and  what  he  owes  to  civilization.  There 
is  something  of  the  charm  of  discovery  in  lighting  upon  these  wild 
and  unexplored  tracts  of  human  nature  ;  in  witnessing,  as  it  were, 
the  native  growth  of  moral  sentiment,  and  perceiving  those  gener 
ous  and  romantic  qualities  which  have  been  artificially  cultivated 
by  society,  vegetating  in  spontaneous  hardihood  and  rude  magnifi 
cence. 

In  civilized  life,  where  the  happiness,  and,  indeed,  almost  the 
existence,  of  man  depends  so  much  upon  the  opinion  of  his  fellow- 
men,  he  is  constantly  acting  a  studied  part.  The  bold  and  pecu 
liar  traits  of  native  character  are  refined  away,  or  softened  down 
by  the  levelling  influence  of  what  is  termed  good-breeding  ;  and 
he  practices  so  many  petty  deceptions,  and  affects  so  many  gener 
ous  sentiments,  for  the  purposes  of  popularity,  that  it  is  difficult  to 
distinguish  his  real  from  his  artificial  character.  The  Indian,  on 
the  contrary,  free  from  the  restraints  and  refinements  of  polished 
life,  and,  in  a  great  degree,  a  solitary  and  independent  being, 
obeying  the  impulses  of  his  inclination  or  the  dictates  of  his  judg 
ment  ;  and  thus  the  attributes  of  his  nature,  being  freely  indulged, 
grow  singly  great  and  striking.  Society  is  like  a  lawn,  where  every 
roughness  is  smoothed,  every  bramble  eradicated,  and  where  the 
eye  is  delighted  by  the  smiling  verdure  of  a  velvet  surface ;  he, 
however,  who  would  study  nature  in  its  wildness  and  variety,  must 
plunge  into  the  forest,  must  explore  the  glen,  must  stem  the  torrent, 
and  dare  the  precipice. 

These  reflections  arose  on  casually  looking  through  a  volume 
of  early  colonial  history,  wherein  are  recorded,  with  great  bitter 
ness,  the  outrages  of  the  Indians,  and  their  wars  with  the  settlers 
of  New  England.  It  is  painful  to  perceive  even  from  these  partial 
narratives,  how  the  footsteps  of  civilization  may  be  traced  in  the 
blood  of  the  aborigines ;  how  easily  the^olonists  were  moved  to 
hostility  by  the  lust  of  conquest ;  how  merciless  and  exterminating 
was  their  warfare.  The  imagination  shrinks  at  the  idea,  how  many 
intellectual  beings  were  hunted  from  the  earth,  how  many  brave 
and  noble  hearts,  of  nature's  sterling  coinage,  were  broken  down 
and  trampled  in  the  dust ! 

Such  was  the  fate  of  PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET,  an  Indian  warrior, 
whose  name  was  once  a  terror  throughout  Massachusetts  and  Con 
necticut.  He  was  the  most  distinguished  of  a  number  of  contem 
porary  Sachems  who  reigned  over  the  Pequods,  the  Narragansets, 
the  Wampanoags,  and  the  other  eastern  tribes,  at  the  time  of  the 
first  settlement  of  New  England  ;  a  band  of  native,  untaught  heroes 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  227 

jvho  made  the  most  generous  struggle  of  which  human  nature  is 
capable  ;  fighting  to  the  last  gasp  in  the  cause  of  their  country, 
without  a  hope  of  victory  or  a  thought  of  renown.  Worthy  of  an 
age  of  poetry,  and  fit  subjects  for  local  story  and  romantic  fiction, 
they  have  left  scarcely  any  authentic  traces  on  a  page  of  history, 
but  stalk,  like  gigantic  shadows,  in  the  dim  twilight  of  tradition.* 

When  the  pilgrims,  as  the  Plymouth  settlers  are  called  by  their 
descendants,  first  took  refuge  on  the  shores  of  the  New  World, 
from  the  religious  persecutions  of  the  Old,  their  situation  was  to  the 
last  degree  gloomy  and  disheartening.  Few  in  number,  and  that 
number  rapidly  perishing  away  through  sickness  and  hardships  ; 
surrounded  by  a  howling  wilderness  and  savage  tribes;  exposed  to 
the  rigor  of  an  almost  arctic  wi-nter,  and  the  vicissitudes  of  an  ever- 
shifting  climate  ;  their  minds  were  filled  with  doleful  forebodings, 
and  nothing  preserved  them  from  sinking  into  despondency  but  the 
strong  excitement  of  religious  enthusiasm.  In  this  forlorn  situa 
tion  they  were  visited  by  Massasoit,  chief  Sagamore  of  the  Wam- 
panoags,  a  powerful  chief,  who  reigned  over  a  great  extent  of 
country.  Instead  of  taking  advantage  of  the  scanty  number  of 
the  strangers,  and  expelling  them  from  his  territories,  into  which 
they  had  intruded,  he  seemed  at  once  to  conceive  for  them  a  gen 
erous  friendship,  and  extended  towards  them  the  rites  of  primitive 
Hospitality.  He  came  early  in  the  spring  to  their  settlement  of  New 
Plymouth,  attended  by  a  mere  handful  of  followers,  entered  into  a 
solemn  league  of  peace  and  amity;  sold  them  a  portion  of  the  soil, 
and  promised  to  secure  for  them  the  good-will  of  his  savage  allies. 
Whatever  may  be  said  of  Indian  perfidy,  it  is  certain  that  the  integ 
rity  and  good  faith  of  Massasoit  have  never  been  impeached.  He 
continued  a  firm  and  magnanimous  friend  of  the  white  men  ;  suf 
fering  them  to  extend  their  possessions,  and  to  strengthen  them 
selves  in  the  land  ;  and  betraying  no  jealousy  of  their  increasing 
power  and  prosperity.  Shortly  before  his  death,  he  came  once 
more  to  New  Plymouth,  with  his  son  Alexander,  for  the  purpose  of 
renewing  the  covenant  of  peace,  and  of  securing  it  to  his  posterity. 

At  this  conference  he  endeavored  to  protect  the  religion  of  his 
forefathers  from  the  encroaching  zeal  of  the  missionaries;  and  stip 
ulated  that  no  further  attempt  should  be  made  to  draw  off  his 
people  from  their  ancient  faith;  but,  finding  the  English  obstinately 
opposed  to  any  such  condition,  he  mildly  relinquished  the  demand. 
Almost  the  last  act  of  his  life  was  to  bring  his  two  sons,  Alexander 
and  Philip  (as  they  had  been  named  by  the  English),  to  the  resi- 

*  While  correcting  the  proof  sheets  of  this  article,  the  author  is  informed 
that  a  celebrated  English  poet  has  nearly  finished  an  heroic  poem  on  the  story 
of  Philip  of  Pokanoket. 


228  THE  SKETCH- B  O  OK. 

dence  of  a  principal  settler,  recommending  mutual  kindness  and 
confidence  ;  and  entreating  that  the  same  love  and  amity  which 
had  existed  between  the  white  men  and  himself  might  be  continued 
afterwards  with  his  children.  The  good  old  Sachem  died  in  peace, 
and  was  happily  gathered  to  his  fathers  before  sorrow  came  upon 
his  tribe ;  his  children  remained  behind  to  experience  the  ingrati 
tude  of  white  men. 

His  eldest  son,  Alexander,  succeeded  him.  He  was  of  a  quick 
and  impetuous  temper,  and  proudly  tenacious  of  his  hereditary 
rights  and  dignity.  The  intrusive  policy  and  dictatorial  conduct  of 
the  strangers  excited  his  indignation ;  and  he  beheld  with  uneasi 
ness  their  exterminating  wars  with  the  neighboring  tribes.  He  was 
doomed  soon  to  incur  their  hostility,  being  accused  of  plotting  with 
the  Narragansets  to  rise  against  the  English  and  drive  them  from 
the  land.  It  is  impossible  to  say  whether  their  accusation  was  war 
ranted  by  facts  or  was  grounded  on  mere  suspicion.  It  is  evident, 
however,  by  the  violent  and  overbearing  measures  of  the  settlers, 
that  they  had  by  this  time  begun  to  feel  conscious  of  the  rapid 
increase  of  their  power,  and  to  grow  harsh  and  inconsiderate  in 
their  treatment  of  the  natives.  They  despatched  an  armed  force 
to  seize  upon  Alexander,  and  to  bring  him  before  their  courts.  He 
was  traced  to  his  woodland  haunts,  and  surprised  at  a  hunting 
house,  where  he  was  reposing  with  a  band  of  his  followers,  un 
armed,  after  the  toils  of  the  chase.  The  suddenness  of  his  arrest, 
and  the  outrage  offered  to  his  soverign  dignity,  so  preyed  upon  the 
irascible  feelings  of  this  proud  savage,  as  to  throw  him  into  a  raging 
fever.  He  was  permitted  to  return  home,  on  condition  of  sending 
his  son  as  a  pledge  for  his  reappearance  ;  but  the  blow  he  had 
received  was  fatal,  and  before  he  had  reached  his  home  he  fell  a 
victim  to  the  agonies  of  a  wounded  spirit. 

The  successor  of  Alexander  was  Metacomet,  or  King  Philip,  as 
he  was  called  by  the  settlers,  on  account  of  his  lofty  spirit  and 
ambitious  temper.  These,  together  with  his  well-known  energy 
and  enterprise,  had  rendered  him  an  object  of  great  jealousy  and 
apprehension,  and  he  was  accused  of  having  always  cherished  a 
secret  and  implacable  hostility  towards  the  whites.  Such  may  very 
probably,  and  very  naturally,  have  been  the  case.  He  considered 
them  as  originally  but  mere  intruders  into  the  country,  who  had 
presumed  upon  indulgence,  and  were  extending  an  influence  bane 
ful  to  savage  life.  He  saw  the  whole  race  of  his  countrymen  IT  cit 
ing  before  them  from  the  face  of  the  earth ;  their  territories  slipping 
from  their  hands,  and  their  tribes  becoming  feeble,  scattered  and 
dependent.  It  may  be  said  that  the  soil  was  originally  purchased 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  22§ 

by  the  settlers  ;  but  who  does  not  know  the  nature  of  Indian  pur 
chases,  in  the  early  periods  of  colonization?  The  Europeans  always 
made  thrifty  bargains  through  their  superior  adroitness  in  traffic  ; 
and  they  gained  vast  accessions  of  territory  by  easily  provoked 
hostilities.  An  uncultivated  savage  is  never  a  nice  inquirer  into  the 
refinements  of  law,  by  which  an  injury  may  be  gradually  and 
legally  inflicted.  Leading  facts  are  all  by  which  he  judges  ;  and  it 
was  enough  for  Philip  to  know  that  before  the  intrusion  of  the  Euro 
peans  his  countrymen  were  lords  of  the  soil,  and  that  now  they 
were  becoming  vagabonds  in  the  land  of  their  fathers. 

But  whatever  may  have  been  his  feelings  of  general  hostility, 
and  his  particular  indignation  at  the  treatment  of  his  brother,  he 
suppressed  them  for  the  present,  renewed  the  contract  with  the 
settlers,  and  resided  peaceably  for  many  years  at  Pokanoket,  or, 
as  it  was  called  by  the  English,  Mount  Hope,*  the  ancient  seat  of 
dominion  of  his  tribe.  Suspicions,  however,  which  wrere  at  first 
but  vague  and  indefinite,  began  to  acquire  form  and  substance; 
and  he  was  at  length  charged  with  attempting  to  instigate  the  vari 
ous  Eastern  tribes  to  rise  at  once,  and,  by  a  simultaneous  effort,  to 
throw  off  the  yoke  of  their  oppressors.  It  is  difficult  at  this  distant 
period  to  assign  the  proper  credit  due  to  these  early  accusations 
against  the  Indians.  There  was  a  proneness  to  suspicion,  and  an 
aptness  to  acts  of  violence,  on  the  part  of  the  whites,  that  gave 
weight  and  importance  to  every  idle  tale.  Informers  abounded 
where  tale-bearing  met  with  countenance  and  reward;  and  the 
sword  was  readily  unsheathed  when  its  success  was  certain,  and  it 
carved  out  empire. 

The  only  positive  evidence  on  record  against  Philip  is  the  accu 
sation  of  one  Sausaman,  a  renegade  Indian,  whose  natural  cunning 
had  been  quickened  by  a  partial  education  which  he  had  received 
among  the  settlers.  He  changed  his  faith  and  his  allegiance  two 
or  three  times,  with  a  facility  that  evinced  the  looseness  of  his  prin 
ciples.  He  had  acted  for  some  time  as  Philip's  confidential  secre 
tary  and  counsellor,  and  had  enjoyed  his  bounty  and  protection. 
Finding,  however,  that  the  clouds  of  adversity  were  gathering 
round  his  patron,  he  abandoned  his  service  and  went  over  to  the 
whites;  and,  in  order  to  gain  their  favor,  charged  his  former  bene 
factor  with  plotting  against  their  safety.  A  rigorous  investigation 
took  place.  Philip  and  several  of  his  subjects  submitted  to  be 
examined,  but  nothing  was  proved  against  them.  The  settlers, 
however,  had  now  gone  too  far  to  retract;  they  had  previously 
determined  that  Philip  was  a  dangerous  neighbor;  they  had  publicly 
*  Now  Bristol  Rhode  IslamL 


$3e  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

evinced  their  distrust;  and  had  done  enough  to  insure  his  hostility; 
according,  therefore,  to  the  usual  mode  of  reasoning  in  these  cases, 
his  destruction  had  become  necessary  to  their  security.  Sausaman, 
the  treacherous  informer,  was  shortly  afterwards  found  dead,  in 
a  pond,  having  fallen  a  victim  to  the  vengeance  of  his  tribe. 
Three  Indians,  one  of  whom  was  a  friend  and  counsellor  of  Philip, 
were  apprehended  and  tried,  and,  on  the  testimony  of  one  very 
questionable  witness,  were  condemned  and  executed  as  murderers. 

This  treatment  of  his  subjects,  and  ignominious  punishment  of 
his  friend,  outraged  the  pride  and  exasperated  the  passions  of 
Philip.  The  bolt  which  had  fallen  thus  at  his  very  feet  awakened 
him  to  the  gathering  storm,  and  he  determined  to  trust  himself  no 
longer  in  the  power  of  the  white  men.  The  fate  of  his  insulted  and 
broken-hearted  brother  still  rankled  in  his  mind;  and  he  had  a 
further  warning  in  the  tragical  story  of  Miantonimo,  a  great  Sachem 
of  the  Narragansets,  who,  after  manfully  facing  his  accusers  before 
a  tribunal  of  the  colonists,  exculpating  himself  from  a  charge  of 
conspiracy,  and  receiving  assurances  of  amity,  had  been  perfidi 
ously  despatched  at  their  instigation.  Philip,  therefore,  gathered 
his  fighting  men  about  him;  persuaded  all  strangers  that  he  could 
to  join  his  cause;  sent  the  women  and  children  to  the  Narragansets 
for  safety;  and  wherever  he  appeared,  was  continually  surrounded 
by  armed  warriors. 

When  the  two  parties  were  thus  in  a  state  of  distrust  and  irrita 
tion,  the  least  spark  was  sufficient  to  set  them  in  a  flame.  The 
Indians,  having  weapons  in  their  hands,  grew  mischievous,  and 
committed  various  petty  depredations.  In  one  of  their  maraudings 
a  warrior  was  fired  on  and  killed  by  a  settler.  This  was  the  signal 
or  open  hostilities;  the  Indians  pressed  to  revenge  the  death  of 
their  comrade,  and  the  alarm  of  war  resounded  through  the  Ply 
mouth  colony. 

In  the  early  chronicles  of  these  dark  and  melancholy  times  we 
meet  with  many  indications  of  the  diseased  state  of  the  public  mind. 
The  gloom  of  religious  abstraction,  and  the  wildness  of  their  situa 
tion,  among  trackless  forests  and  savage  tribes,  had  disposed  the 
colonists  to  superstitious  fancies,  and  had  filled  their  imaginations 
with  the  frightful  chimeras  of  witchcraft  and  spectrology.  They 
were  much  given,  also,  to  a  belief  in  omens.  The  troubles  with 
Philip  and  his  Indians  were  preceded,  we  are  told,  by  a  variety  of 
those  awful  warnings  which  forerun  great  and  public  calamities. 
The  perfect  form  of  an  Indian  bow  appeared  in  the  air  at  New 
Plymouth,  which  was  looked  upon  by  the  inhabitants  as  a  "  prodi 
gious  apparition."  At  Hadley,  Northampton,  and  other  towns  in 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  231 

their  neighborhood,  "  was  heard  the  report  of  a  great  piece  of 
ordnance,  with  a  shaking  of  the  earth  and  a  considerable  echo."  * 
Others  where  alarmed  on  a  still,  sunshiny  morning  by  the  discharge 
of  guns  and  muskets;  bullets  seemed  to  whistle  past  them,  and  the 
noise  of  drums  resounded  in  the  air,  seeming  to  pass  away  to  the 
westward;  others  fancied  that  they  heard  the  galloping  of  horses 
over  their  heads;  and  certain  monstrous  births,  which  took  place 
about  the  time,  filled  the  superstitious  in  some  towns  with  doleful 
forebodings.  Many  of  these  portentous  sights  and  sounds  may  be 
ascribed  to  natural  phenomena :  to  the  northern  lights  which  occur 
vividly  in  those  latitudes;  the  meteors  which  explode  in  the  air; 
the  casual  rushing  of  a  blast  through  the  top  branches  of  the  for 
est;  the  crash  of  fallen  trees  or  disrupted  rocks;  and  to  those  other 
uncouth  sounds  and  echoes  which  will  sometimes  strike  the  ear  so 
strangely  amidst  the  profound  stillness  of  woodland  solitudes. 
These  may  have  startled  some  melancholy  imaginations,  may  have 
been  exaggerated  by  the  love  for  the  marvellous,  and  listened  to 
with  that  avidity  with  which  we  devour  whatever  is  fearful  and 
mysterious.  The  universal  currency  of  these  superstitious  fancies, 
and  the  grave  record  made  of  them  by  one  of  the  learned  men  of 
the  day,  are  strongly  characteristic  of  the  times. 

The  nature  of  the  contest  that  ensued  was  such  as  too  often  dis 
tinguishes  the  warfare  between  civilized  men  and  savages.  On  the 
part  of  the  whites  it  was  conducted  with  superior  skill  and  success; 
but  with  a  wastefulness  of  the  blood,  and  a  disregard  of  the  natural 
rights  of  their  antagonists  :  on  the  part  of  the  Indians  it  was  waged 
with  the  desperation  of  men  fearless  of  death,  who  had  nothing  to 
expect  from  peace,  but  humiliation,  dependence  and  decay. 

The  events  of  the  war  are  transmitted  to  us  by  a  worthy  clergy 
man  of  the  time  ;  who  dwells  with  horror  and  indignation  on  every 
hostile  act  of  the  Indians,  however  justifiable,  whilst  he  mentions 
with  applause  the  most  sanguinary  atrocities  of  the  whites.  Philip 
is  reviled  as  a  murderer  and  a  traitor;  without  considering  that  he 
was  a  true  born  prince,  gallantly  fighting  at  the  head  of  his  subjects 
to  avenge  the  wrongs  of  his  family;  to  retrieve  the  tottering  power 
of  his  line  ;  and  to  deliver  his  native  land  from  the  oppression  of 
usurping  strangers. 

The  project  of  a  wide  and  simultaneous  revolt,  if  such  had  really 
been  formed,  was  worthy  of  a  capacious  mind  and,  had  it  not  been 
prematurely  discovered,  might  have  been  overwhelming  in  its  con 
sequences.  The  war  that  actually  broke  out  was  but  a  war  of 
detail,  a  mere  succession  of  casual  exploits  and  unconnected  enter- 
*  The  Rev.  Increase  Mather's  History. 


*32  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

prises.  Still  it  sets  forth  the  military  genius  and  daring  prowess  of 
Philip,  and  wherever,  in  the  prejudiced  and  passionate  narrations 
that  have  been  given  of  it,  we  can  arrive  at  simple  facts,  we  find 
him  displaying  a  vigorous  mind,  a  fertility  of  expedients,  a  con 
tempt  of  suffering  and  hardship,  and  an  unconquerable  resolution, 
that  command  our  sympathy  and  applause. 

Driven  from  his  paternal  domains  at  Mount  Hope,  he  threw  him 
self  into  the  depths  of  those  vast  and  trackless  forests  that  skirted 
the  settlements,  and  were  almost  impervious  to  anything  but  a  wild 
beast  or  an  Indian.  Here  he  gathered  together  his  forces,  like  the 
storm  accumulating  its  stores  of  mischief  in  the  bosom  of  the 
thunder-cloud,  and  would  suddenly  emerge  at  a  time  and  place 
least  expected,  carrying  havoc  and  dismay  into  the  villages.  There 
were  now  and  then  indications  of  these  impending  ravages,  that 
filled  the  minds  of  the  colonists  with  awe  and  apprehension.  The 
report  of  a  distant  gun  would,  perhaps,  be  heard  from  the  solitary 
woodland,  where  there  was  known  to  be  no  white  man;  the  cattle 
which  had  been  wandering  in  the  woods  would  sometimes  return 
home  wounded  ;  or  an  Indian  or  two  would  be  seen  lurking  about 
the  skirts  of  the  forests,  and  suddenly  disappearing ;  as  the  lightning 
will  sometimes  be  seen  playing  silently  about  the  edge  of  the  cloud 
that  is  brewing  up  the  tempest. 

Though  sometimes  pursued  and  even  surrounded  by  the  settlers, 
yet  Philip  as  often  escaped  almost'miraculously  from  their  toils,  and, 
plunging  into  the  wilderness,  would  be  lost  to  all  search  or  inquiry, 
until  he  again  emerged  at  some  far  distant  quarter,  laying  the 
country  desolate.  Among  his  strongholds  were  the  great  swamps 
or  morasses  which  extend  in  some  parts  of  New  England ;  com 
posed  of  loose  bogs  of  deep,  black  mud;  perplexed  with  thickets, 
brambles,  rank  weeds,  the  shattered  and  mouldering  trunks  of 
fallen  trees,  overshadowed  by  lugubrious  hemlocks.  The  uncertain 
footing  and  the  tangled  mazes  of  these  shaggy  wilds,  rendered  them 
almost  impracticable  to  the  white  man,  though  the  Indian  could  thrid 
their  labyrinths  with  the  agility  of  a  deer.  Into  one  of  these,  the 
great  swamp  of  Pocasset  Neck,  was  Philip  once  driven  with  a  band 
of  his  followers.  The  English  did  not  dare  to  pursue  him,  fearing 
to  venture  into  these  dark  and  frightful  recesses,  where  they  might 
perish  in  fens  and  miry  pits,  or  be  shot  down  by  lurking  foes.  They, 
therefore,  invested  the  entrance  to  the  Neck,  and  began  to  build  a 
fort,  with  the  thought  of  starving  out  the  foe;  but  Philip  and  his 
warriors  wafted  themselves  on  a  raft  over  an  arm  of  the  sea,  in  the 
dead  of  the  night,  leaving  the  women  and  the  children  behind;  and 
escaped  away  to  the  westward,  kindling  the  flames  of  war  among 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  23$ 

the  tribes  of  Massachusetts  and  the  Nipmuck  cQuntry,  and  threat 
ening  the  colony  of  Connecticut. 

In  this  way  Philip  became  a  theme  of  universal  apprehension. 
The  mystery  in  which  he  was  enveloped  exaggerated  his  real  ter 
rors.  He  was  an  evil  that  walked  in  darkness  ;  whose  coming 
none  could  foresee,  and  against  which  none  knew  when  to  be 
on  the  alert.  The  whole  country  abounded  with  rumors  and  alarms. 
Philip  seemed  almost  possessed  of  ubiquity;  for,  in  whatever  part 
of  the  widely-extended  frontier  an  irruption  from  the  forest  took 
place,  Philip  was  said  to  be  its  leader.  Many  superstitious  notions, 
also,  were  circulated  concerning  him.  He  was  said  to  deal  in  ne 
cromancy,  and  to  be  attended  by  an  old  Indian  witch  or  prophetess, 
whom  he  consulted,  and  who  assisted  him  by  her  charms  and 
incantations.  This,  indeed,  was  frequently  the  case  with  Indian 
chiefs;  either  through  their  own  credulity,  or  to  act  upon  that  of 
their  followers:  and  the  influence  of  the  prophet  and  the  dreamer 
over  Indian  superstition  has  been  fully  evidenced  in  recent  in 
stances  of  savage  warfare. 

At  the  time  that  Philip  effected  his  escape  from  Pocasset,  his 
fortunes  were  in  a  desperate  condition.  His  forces  had  been 
thinned  by  repeated  fights,  and  he  had  lost  almost  the  whole  of 
his  resources.  In  this  time  of  adversity  he  found  a  faithful  friend 
in  Canonchet,  chief  Sachem  of  all  the  Narragansets.  He  was  the 
son  and  heir  of  Miantonimo,  the  great  Sachem,  who,  as  already 
mentioned,  after  an  honorable  acquittal  of  the  charge  of  conspiracy, 
had  been  privately  put  to  death  at  the  perfidious  instigations  of  the 
settlers.  "He  was  the  heir,"  says  the  old  chronicler,  "of  all  his 
father's  pride  and  insolence,  as  well  as  of  his  malice  towards  the 
English;" — he  certainly  was  the  heir  of  his  insults  and  injuries,  and 
the  legitimate  avenger  of  his  murder.  Though  he  had  forborne  to 
take  an  active  part  in  this  hopeless  war,  yet  he  received  Philip  and 
his  broken  forces  with  open  arms;  and  gave  them  the  most  gener 
ous  countenance  and  support.  This  at  once  drew  upon  him  the 
hostility  of  the  English ;  and  it  was  determined  to  strike  a  signal 
blow  that  should  involve  both  the  Sachems  in  one  common  ruin. 
A  great  force  was,  therefore,  gathered  together  from  Massachusetts, 
Plymouth  and  Connecticut,  and  was  sent  into  the  Narraganset 
country  in  the  depth  of  winter,  when  the  swamps,  being  frozen  and 
leafless,  could  be  traversed  with  comparative  facility,  and  would  no 
longer  afford  dark  and  impenetrable  fastnesses  to  the  Indians. 

Apprehensive  of  attack,  Canonchet  had  conveyed  the  greater 
part  of 'his  stores,  together  with  the  old,  the  infirm,  the  women  and 
children  of  his  tribe,  to  a  strong  fortress  ;  where  he  and  Philip  had 


234  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

likewise  drawn  lip  the  flower  of  their  forces.  This  fortress,  deemed 
by  the  Indians  impregnable,  was  situated  upon  a  rising  mound  or 
kind  of  island,  of  five  or  six  acres,  in  the  midst  of  a  swamp ;  it  was 
constructed  with  a  degree  of  judgment  and  skill  vastly  superior  to 
what  is  usually  displayed  in  Indian  fortification,  and  indicative  of 
th"e  martial  genius  of  these  two  chieftains. 

Guided  by  a  renegado  Indian,  the  English  penetrated,  through 
December  snows,  to  this  stronghold,  and  came  upon  the  garrison 
by  surprise.  The  fight  was  fierce  and  tumultuous.  The  assailants 
were  repulsed  in  their  first  attack,  and  several  of  their  bravest 
officers  were  shot  down  in  the  act  of  storming  the  fortress  sword  in 
hand.  The  assault  was  renewed  with  greater  success.  A  lodg 
ment  was  effected.  The  Indians  were  driven  from  one  post  to 
another.  They  disputed  their  ground  inch  by  inch,  fighting  with 
the  fury  of  despair.  Most  of  their  veterans  were  cut  to  pieces;  and 
after  a  long  and  bloody  battle,  Philip  and  Canonchet,  with  a  hand 
ful  of  surviving  warriors,  retreated  from  the  fort,  and  took  refuge 
in  the  thickets  of  the  surrounding  forest. 

The  victors  set  fire  to  the  wigwams  and  the  fort ;  the  whole  was 
soon  in  a  blaze;  many  of  the  old  men,  the  women  and  the  children 
perished  in  the  flames.  This  last  outrage  overcame  even  the  stoi 
cism  of  the  savage.  The  neighboring  woods  resounded  with  the 
yells  of  rage  and  despair,  uttered  by  the  fugitive  warriors,  as  they 
beheld  the  destruction  of  their  dwellings,  and  heard  the  agonizing 
cries  of  their  wives  and  offspring.  "  The  burning  of  the  wigwams," 
says  a  contemporary  writer,  "the  shrieks  and  cries  of  the  women 
and  children,  and  the  yelling  of  the  warriors,  exhibited  a  most 
horrible  and  affecting  scene,  so  that  it  greatly  moved  some  of  the 
soldiers."  The  same  writer  cautiously  adds,  "  they  were  in  much 
doubt  then,  and  afterwards  seriously  inquired,  whether  burning 
their  enemies  alive  could  be  consistent  with  humanity,  and  the 
benevolent  principles  of  the  Gospel."* 

The  fate  of  the  brave  and  generous  Canonchet  is  worthy  of  par 
ticular  mention:  the  last  scene  of  his  life  is  one  of  the  noblest 
instances  on  record  of  Indian  magnanimity. 

Broken  down  in  his  power  and  resources  by  this  signal  defeat, 
yet  faithful  to  his  ally,  and  to  the  hapless  cause  which  he  had 
espoused,  he  rejected  all  overtures  of  peace,  offered  on  condition 
of  betraying  Philip  and  his  followers,  and  declared  that  "he  would 
fight  it  out  to  the  last  man,  rather  than  become  a  servant  to  the 
English."  His  home  being  destroyed  ;  his  country  harassed  and 
laid  waste  by  the  incursions  of  the  conquerors  ;  he  was  obliged  to 
*  MS.  of  the  KevTw.  Ruggles. 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  *3$ 

wander  away  to  the  banks  of  the  Connecticut ;  where  be  formed  a 
rallying  point  to  the  whole  body  of  western  Indians,  and  laid  waste 
several  of  the  English  settlements. 

Early  in  the  spring  he  departed  on  a  hazardous  expedition,  with 
only  thirty  chosen  men,  to  penetrate  to  Seaconck,  in  the  vicinity  of 
Mount  Hope,  and  to  procure  seed  corn  to  plant  for  the  sustenance 
of  his  troops.  This  little  band  of  adventurers  had  passed  safely 
through  the  Pequod  country,  and  were  in  the  centre  of  the  Narra- 
ganset,  resting  at  some  wigwams  near  Pawtucket  River,  when  an 
alarm  was  given  of  an  approaching  enemy.  Having  but  seven 
men  by  him  at  the  time,  Canonchet  despatched  two  of  them  to  the 
top  of  a  neighboring  hill,  to  bring  intelligence  of  the  foe. 

Panic-struck  by  the  appearance  of  a  troop  of  English  and  Indi 
ans  rapidly  advancing,  they  fled  in  breathless  terror  past  their 
chieftain,  without  stopping  to  inform  him  of  the  danger.  Canon 
chet  sent  another  scout,  who  did  the  same.  He  then  sent  two 
more,  one  of  whom,  hurrying  back  in  confusion  and  affright,  told 
him  that  the  whole  British  army  was  at  hand.  Canonchet  saw 
ihere  was  no  choice  but  immediate  flight.  He  attempted  to  escape 
round  the  hill,  but  was  perceived  and  hotly  pursued  by  the  hostile 
Jndians  and  a  few  of  the  fleetest  of  the  English.  Finding  the 
swiftest  pursuer  close  upon  his  heels,  he  threw  off,  first  his  blanket, 
then  his  silver-laced  coat  and  belt  of  peag,  by  which  his  enemies 
knew  him  to  be  Canonchet,  and  redoubled  the  eagerness  of  pur 
suit. 

At  length,  in  dashing  through  the  river,  his  foot  slipped  upon  a 
stone,  and  he  fell  so  deep  as  to  wet  his  gun.  This  accident  so 
struck  him  with  despair,  that,  as  he  afterwards  confessed,  "his 
heart  and  his  bowels  turned  within  him,  and  he  became  like  a  rot 
ten  stick,  void  of  strength." 

To  such  a  degree  was  he  unnerved,  that,  being  seized  by  a 
Pequod  Indian  within  a  short  distance  of  the  river,  he  made  no 
resistance,  though  a  man  of  great  vigor  of  body  and  boldness  of 
heart.  But  on  being  made  prisoner  the  whole  pride  of  his  spirit 
arose  within  him ;  and  from  that  moment,  we  find,  in  the  anecdotes 
given  by  his  enemies,  nothing  but  repeated  flashes  of  elevated  and 
prince-like  heroism.  Being  questioned  by  one  of  the  English  who 
first  came  up  with  him,  and  who  had  not  attained  his  twenty-second 
year,  the  proud-hearted  warrior,  looking  with  lofty  contempt  upon 
his  youthful  countenance,  replied,  "You  are  a  child — you  cannot 
understand  matters  of  war — let  your  brother  or  your  chief  come — 
him  will  I  answer." 

Though  repeated  offers  were  made  to  him  of  his  life,  on  condition 


$36  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

of  submitting  with  his  nation  to  the  English,  yet  he  rejected  them 
with  disdain,  and  refused  to  send  any  proposals  of  the  kind  to  the 
great  body  of  his  subjects ;  saying,  that  he  knew  none  of  them 
would  comply.  Being  reproached  with  his  breach  of  faith  towards 
the  whites  ;  his  boast  that  he  would  not  deliver  up  a  Wampanoag 
nor  the  paring  of  a  Wampanoag's  nail;  and  his  threat  that  he 
would  burn  the  English  alive  in  their  houses;  he  disdained  to 
justify  himself,  haughtily  answering  that  others  were  as  forward  for 
the  war  as  himself,  and  "  he  desired,  to  hear  no  more  thereof." 

So  noble  and  unshaken  a  spirit,  so  true  a  fidelity  to  his  cause  and 
his  friend,  might  have  touched  the  feeling  of  the  generous  and  the 
brave;  but  Canonchet  was  an  Indian;  a  being  towards  whom 
war  had  no  courtesy,  humanity  no  law,  religion  no  compassion — 
he  was  condemned  to  die.  The  last  words  of  him  that  are  recorded, 
are  worthy  the  greatness  of  his  soul.  When  sentence  of  death  was 
passed  upon  him,  he  observed  "  that  he  liked  it  well,  for  he  should 
die  before  his  heart  was  soft,  or  he  had  spoken  anything  unworthy 
of  himself."  His  enemies  gave  him  the  death  of  a  soldier,  for  he 
was  shot  at  Stoningham,  by  three  young  Sachems  of  his  own  rank. 

The  defeat  at  the  Narraganset  fortress,  and  the  death  of  Canon 
chet,  were  fatal  blows  to  the  fortunes  of  King  Philip.  He  made 
an  ineffectual  attempt  to  raise  a  head  of  war,  by  stirring  up  the 
Mohawks  to  take  arms ;  but  though  possessed  of  the  native  talents 
of  a  statesman,  his  arts  were  counteracted  by  the  superior  arts  of 
his  enlightened  enemies,  and  the  terror  of  their  warlike  skill  began 
to  subdue  the  resolution  of  the  neighboring  tribes.  The  unfor 
tunate  chieftain  saw  himself  daily  stripped  of  power,  and  his  ranks 
rapidly  thinning  around  him.  Some  were  suborned  by  the  whites ; 
others  fell  victims  to  hunger  and  fatigue,  and  to  the  frequent  attacks 
by  which  they  were  harassed.  His  stores  were  all  captured ;  his 
chosen  friends  were  swept  away  from  before  his  eyes ;  his  uncle 
was  shot  down  by  his  side;  his  sister  was  carried  into  captivity  ; 
and  in  one  of  his  narrow  escapes  he  was  compelled  to  leave  his 
beloved  wife  and  only  son  to  the  mercy  of  the  enemy.  "  His  ruin," 
says  the  historian,  "being  thus  gradually  carried  on,  his  misery 
was  not  prevented,  but  augmented  thereby ;  being  himself  made 
acquainted  with  the  sense  and  experimental  feeling  of  the  captivity 
of  his  children,  loss  of  friends,  slaughter  of  his  subjects,  bereave- 
ment  of  all  family  relations,  and  being  stripped  of  all  outward  com 
forts,  before  his  own  life  should  be  taken  away." 

To  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  misfortunes,  his  own  followers 
began  to  plot  against  his  life,  that  by  sacrificing  him  they  might 
purchase  dishonorable  safety.  Through  teachery  a  number  of  his 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  23? 

faithful  adherents,  the  subjects  of  Wetamoe,  an  Indian  princess  of 
Pocasset,  a  near  kinswoman  and  confederate  of  Philip,  were  be 
trayed  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy.  Wetamoe  was  among  them 
at  the  time,  and  attempted  to  make  her  escape  by  crossing  a 
neighboring  river:  either  exhausted  by  swimming,  or  starved  by 
cold  and  hunger,  she  was  found  dead  and  naked  near  the  water 
side.  But  persecution  ceased  not  at  the  grave.  Even  death,  the 
refuge  of  the  wretched,  where  the  wicked  commonly  cease  from 
troubling,  was  no  protection  to  this  outcast  female,  whose  great 
crime  was  affectionate  fidelity  to  her  kinsman  and  her  friend.  Her 
corpse  was  the  object  of  unmanly  and  dastardly  vengeance ;  the 
head  was  severed  from  the  body  and  set  upon  a  pole,  and  was 
thus  exposed  at  Taunton,  to  the  view  of  her  captive  subjects. 
They  immediately  recognized  the  features  of  their  unfortunate 
queen,  and  were  so  affected  at  this  barbarous  spectacle,  that  we 
are  told  they  broke  forth  into  the  "most  horrid  and  diabolical 
lamentations." 

However  Philip  had  borne  up  against  the  complicated  miseries 
and  misfortunes  that  surrounded  him,  the  treachery  of  his  followers 
seemed  to  wring  his  heart  and  reduce  him  to  despondency.  It  is 
said  that  "he  never  rejoiced  afterwards,  nor  had  success  in  any  of 
his  designs."  The  spring  of  hope  was  broken — the  ardor  of  enter 
prise  was  extinguished — he  looked  around,  and  all  was  danger  and 
darkness ;  there  was  no  eye  to  pity,  nor  any  arm  that  could  bring 
deliverance.  With  a  scanty  band  of  followers,  who  still  remained 
true  to  his  desperate  fortunes,  the  unhappy  Philip  wandered  back 
to  the  vicinity  of  Mount  Hope,  the  ancient  dwelling  of  his  fathers. 
Here  he  lurked  about,  like  a  spectre,  among  the  scenes  of  former 
power  and  prosperity,  now  bereft  of  home,  of  family  and  friend. 
There  needs  no  better  picture  of  his  destitute  and  piteous  situation, 
than  that  furnished  by  the  homely  pen  of  the  chronicler,  who  is 
unwarily  enlisting  the  feelings  of  the  reader  in  favor  of  the  hapless 
warrior  whom  he  reviles.  "  Philip,"  he  says,  "like  a  savage  wild 
beast,  having  been  hunted  by  the  English  forces  through  the  woods, 
above  a  hundred  miles  backward  and  forward,  at  last  was  driven 
to  his  own  den  upon  Mount  Hope,  where  he  retired,  with  a  few  of 
his  best  friends,  into  a  swamp,  which  proved  but  a  prison  to  keep 
him  fast  till  the  messengers  of  death  came  by  divine  permission  to 
execute  vengeance  upon  him." 

Even  in  this  last  refuge  of  desperation  and  despair,  a  sullen 
grandeur  gathers  round  his  memory.  We  picture  him  to  ourselves 
seated  among  his  care-worn  followers,  brooding  in  silence  over  his 
blasted  fortunes,  and  acquiring  a  savage  sublimity  from  the  wild- 


238  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ness  and  dreariness  of  his  lurking-place.  Defeated,  but  mt  dis 
mayed — crushed  to  the  earth,  but  not  humiliated — he  seemed  to 
grow  more  haughty  beneath  disaster,  and  to  experience  a  fierce 
satisfaction  in  draining  the  last  dregs  of  bitterness.  Little  minds 
are  tamed  and  subdued  by  misfortune ;  but  great  minds  rise  above 
it.  The  very  idea  of  submission  awakened  the  fury  of  Philip,  and 
he  smote  to  death  one  of  his  followers,  who  proposed  an  expedient 
of  peace.  The  brother  of  the  victim  made  his  escape,  and  in  re 
venge  betrayed  the  retreat  of  his  chieftain.  A  body  of  white  men 
and  Indians  were  immediately  despatched  to  the  swamp  where 
Philip  lay  crouched,  glaring  with  fury  and  despair.  Before  he  was 
aware  of  their  approach,  they  had  begun  to  surround  him.  In  a 
little  while  he  saw  five  of  his  trustiest  followers  laid  dead  at  his  feet ; 
all  resistance  was  vain ;  he  rushed  forth  from  his  covert,  and  made 
a  headlong  attempt  to  escape,  but  was  shot  through  the  heart  by  a 
renegade  Indian  of  his  own  nation. 

Such  is  the  scanty  story  of  the  brave  but  unfortunate  King 
Philip;  persecuted  while  living,  slandered  and  dishonored  when 
dead.  If,  however,  we  consider  even  the  prejudiced  anecdotes 
furnished  us  by  his  enemies,  we  may  perceive  in  them  traces  of 
amiable  and  lofty  character  sufficient  to  awaken  sympathy  for  his 
fate,  and  respect  for  his  memory.  We  find  that,  amidst  all  the 
harassing  cares  and  ferocious  passions  of  constant  warfare,  he  was 
alive  to  the  softer  feelings  of  connubial  love  and  paternal  tender 
ness,  and  to  the  generous  sentiment  of  friendship.  The  captivity 
of  his  "beloved  wife  and  only  son"  are  mentioned  with  exultation 
as  causing  him  poignant  misery  :  the  death  of  any  near  friend  is 
triumphantly  recorded  as  a  new  blow  on  his  own  sensibilities;  but  the 
treachery  and  desertion  of  many  of  his  followers,  in  whose  affections 
he  had  confided,  is  said  to  have  desolated  his  heart,  and  to  have 
bereaved  him  of  all  further  comfort.  He  was  a  patriot  attached  to 
his  native  soil — a  prince  true  to  his  subjects,  and  indignant  of  their 
wrongs — a  soldier,  daring  in  battle,  firm  in  adversity,  patient  of 
fatigue,  of  hunger,  of  every  variety  of  bodily  suffering,  and  ready 
to  perish  in  the  cause  he  had  espoused.  Proud  of  heart,  and  with 
an  untamable  love  of  natural  liberty,  he  preferred  to  enjoy  it  among 
the  beasts  of  the  forests  or  in  the  dismal  and  famished  recesses  of 
swamps  and  morasses,  rather  than  bow  his  haughty  spirit  to  sub 
mission,  and  live  dependent  and  despised  in  the  ease  and  luxury  of 
the  settlements.  With  heroic  qualities  and  bold  achievements  that 
would  have  graced  a  civilized  warrior,  and  have  rendered  him  the 
theme  of  the  poet  and  the  historian ;  he  lived  a  wanderer  and  a 
fugitive  in  his  native  land,  and  went  down,  like  a  lonely  bark 


JOHN  BULL.  239 

foundering  amid  darkness  and  tempest — without  a  pitying  eye  to 
weep  his  fall,  or  a  friendly  hand  to  record  his  struggle. 


JOHN  BULL. 

An  old  song,  made  by  an  aged  old  pate, 
Of  an  old  worshipful  gentleman  who  had  a  great  estate, 
That  kept  a  brave  oldnouse  at  a  bountiful  rate, 
And  an  old  porter  to  relieve  the  poor  at  his  gate. 
With  an  old  study  flll'd  full  of  learned  old  books, 
With  an  old  reverend  chaplain,  you  might  know  him  by  hislookf, 
With  an  old  buttery  hatch  worn  quite  off  the  hooks, 
And  an  old  kitchen  that  maintained  half-a-dozen  old  cooks. 
Like  an  old  courtier,  etc. 

OLD  SONO. 

nnHERE  is  no  species  of  humor  in  which  the  English  more  excel, 
than  that  which  consists  in  caricaturing  and  giving  ludicrous 
appelations,  or  nicknames.  In  this  way  they  have  whimsi 
cally  designated,  not  merely  individuals,  but  nations  ;  and,  in  their 
fondness  for  pushing  a  joke,  they  have  not  spared  even  themselves. 
One  would  think  that,  in  personifying  itself,  a  nation  would  be  apt 
to  picture  something  grand,  heroic,  and  imposing  ;  but  it  is  charac 
teristic  of  the  peculiar  humor  of  the  English,  and  of  their  love  for 
what  is  blunt,  comic,  and  familiar,  that  they  have  embodied  their 
national  oddities  in  the  figure  of  a  sturdy,  corpulent  old  fellow,  with 
a  three-cornered  hat,  red  waistcoat,  leather  breeches,  and  a  stout, 
oaken  cudgel.  Thus  they  have  taken  a  singular  delight  in  exhibit 
ing  their  most  private  foibles  in  a  laughable  point  of  view  ;  and 
have  been  so  successful  in  their  delineations,  that  there  is  scarcely 
a  being  in  actual  existence  more  absolutely  present  to  the  public 
mind  than  that  eccentric  personage,  John  Bull. 

Perhaps  the  continual  contemplation  of  the  character  thus  drawn 
t)f  them  has  contributed  to  fix  it  upon  the  nation  ;  and  thus  to  give 
reality  to  what  at  first  may  have  been  painted  in  a  great  measure 
from  the  imagination.  Men  are  apt  to  acquire  peculiarities  that  are 
continually  ascribed  to  them.  The  common  orders  of  English 
seem  wonderfully  captivated  with  the  beau  ideal  which  they  have 
formed  of  John  Bull,  and  endeavor  to  act  up  to  the  broad  carica 
ture  that  is  perpetually  before  their  eyes.  Unluckily,  they  some 
times  make  their  boasted  Bull-ism  an  apology  for  their  prejudice  or 
grossness  ;  and  this  I  have  especially  noticed  among  those  truly 
home-bred  and  genuine  sons  of  the  soil  who  have  never  migrated 
beyond  the  sound  of  Bow-bells.  If  one  of  these  should  be  a  little 


240  THE  SKETCH-B O OK. 

uncouth  in  speech,  and  apt  to  utter  impertinent  truths,  he  confesses 
that  he  is  a  real  John  Bull,  and  always  speaks  his  mind.  If  he  now 
and  then  flies  into  an  unreasonable  burst  of  passion  about  trifles, 
he  observes  that  John  Bull  is  a  choleric  old  blade,  but  then  his 
passion  is  over  in  a  moment,  and  he  bears  no  malice.  If  he  betrays 
a  coarseness  of  taste,  and  an  insensibility  to  foreign  refinements, 
he  thanks  heaven  for  his  ignorance — he  is  a  plain  John  Bull,  and 
has  no  relish  for  frippery  and  nicknacks.  His  very  proneness  to 
be  gulled  by  strangers,  and  to  pay  extravagantly  for  absurdities  is 
excused  under  the  plea  of  munificence — for  John  is  always  more 
generous  than  wise. 

Thus,  under  the  name  of  John  Bull,  he  will  contrive  to  argue 
every  fault  into  a  merit,  and  will  frankly  convict  himself  of  being 
the  honestest  fellow  in  existence. 

However  little,  therefore,  the  character  may  have  suited  in  the 
first  instance,  it  has  gradually  adapted  itself  to  the  nation,  or  rather 
they  have  adapted  themselves  to  each  other ;  and  a  stranger  who 
wishes  to  study  English  peculiarities,  may  gather  much  valuable 
information  from  the  innumerable  portraits  of  John  Bull,  as  exhib 
ited  in  the  windows  of  the  caricature-shops.  Still,  however,  he  is 
one  of  those  fertile  humorists  that  are  continually  throwing  out 
new  portraits,  and  presenting  different  aspects  from  different  points 
of  view ;  and,  often  as  he  has  been  described,  I  cannot  resist  the 
temptation  to  give  a  slight  sketch  of  him,  such  as  he  has  met  my  eye. 

John  Bull,  to  all  appearance,  is  a  plain,  downright,  matter-of-fact 
fellow,  with  much  less  of  poetry  about  him  than  rich  prose.  There 
is  little  of  romance  in  his  nature,  but  a  vast  deal  of  strong  natural 
feeling.  He  excels  in  humor  more  than  in  wit ;  is  jolly  rather  than 
gay  ;  melancholy  rather  than  morose ;  can  easily  be  moved  to  a 
sudden  tear  or  surprised  into  a  broad  laugh ;  but  he  loathes  senti 
ment,  and  has  no  turn  for  light  pleasantry.  He  is  a  boon  com 
panion,  if  you  allow  him  to  have  his  humor,  and  to  talk  about 
himself ;  and  he  will  stand  by  a  friend  in  a  quarrel,  with  life  and 
purse,  however  soundly  he  may  be  cudgelled. 

In  this  last  respect,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  has  a  propensity  to  be 
somewhat  too  ready.  He  is  a  busy-minded  personage,  who  thinks 
not  merely  for  himself  and  family,  but  for  all  the  country  round, 
and  is  most  generously  disposed  to  be  everybody's  champion.  He 
is  continually  volunteering  his  services  to  settle  his  neighbors' 
affairs,  and  takes  it  in  great  dudgeon  if  they  engage  in  any  matter 
of  consequence  without  asking  his  advice  ;  though  he  seldom 
engages  in  any  friendly  office  of  the  kind  without  finishing  by 
getting  into  a  squabble  with  all  parties,  and  then  railing  bitterly  at 


JOHN  BULL.  241 

their  ingratitude.  He,  unluckily,  took  lessons  in  his  youth  in  the 
noble  science  of  defence,  and  having  accomplished  himself  in  the 
u  se  of  his  limbs  and  his  weapons,  and  become  a  perfect  master  at 
boxing  and  cudgel-play,  he  has  had  a  troublesome  life  of  it  ever 
since.  He  cannot  hear  of  a  quarrel  between  the  most  distant  of 
his  neighbors,  but  he  begins  incontinently  to  fumble  with  the  head 
of  his  cudgel,  and  consider  whether  his  interest  or  honor  does  not 
require  that  he  should  meddle  in  the  broil.  Indeed,  he  has  extended 
his  relations  of  pride  and  policy  so  completely  over  the  whole 
country,  that  no  event  can  take  place  without  infringing  some  of 
his  finely-spun  rights  and  dignities.  Couched  in  his  little  domain, 
with  these  filaments  stretching  forth  in  every  direction,  he  is  like 
some  choleric,  bottle-bellied  old  spider,  who  has  woven  his  web 
over  a  whole  chamber,  so  that  a  fly  cannot  buzz,  nor  a  breeze  blow, 
without  startling  his  repose,  and  causing  him  to  sally  forth  wrath- 
fully  from  his  den. 

Though  really  a  good-hearted,  good-tempered  old  fellow  at 
bottom,  yet  he  is  singularly  fond  of  being  in  the  midst  of  conten 
tion.  It  is  one  of  his  peculiarities,  however,  that  he  only  relishes 
the  beginning  of  an  affray :  he  always  goes  into  a  fight  with 
alacrity,  but  comes  out  of  it  grumbling  even  when  victorious ;  and 
though  no  one  fights  with  more  obstinacy  to  carry  a  contested 
point,  yet,  when  the  battle  is  over,  and  he  comes  to  the  reconcilia 
tion,  he  is  so  much  taken  up  with  the  mere  shaking  of  hands,  that 
he  is  apt  to  let  his  antagonist  pocket  all  that  they  have  been  quar 
relling  about.  It  is  not,  therefore,  fighting  that  he  ought  so  much 
to  be  on  his  guard  against  as  making  friends.  It  is  difficult  to 
cudgel  him  out  of  a  farthing ;  but  put  him  in  a  good  humor,  and 
you  may  bargain  him  out  of  all  the  money  in  his  pocket.  He  is 
like  a  stout  ship,  which  will  weather  the  roughest  storm  uninjured, 
but  roll  its  masts  overboard  in  the  succeeding  calm. 

He  is  a  little  fond  of  playing  the  magnifico  abroad  ;  of  pulling 
out  a  long  purse ;  flinging  his  money  bravely  about  at  boxing 
matches,  horse  races,  cock  fights,  and  carrying  a  high  head  among 
"gentlemen  of  the  fancy  :  "  but  immediately  after  one  of  these  fits 
of  extravagance,  he  will  be  taken  with  violent  qualms  of  economy ; 
stop  short  at  the  most  trivial  expenditure  ;  talk  desperately  of  being 
ruined  and  brought  upon  the  parish  ;  and,  in  such  moods,  will  not 
pay  the  smallest  tradesman's  bill  without  violent  altercation.  He 
is,  in  fact,  the  most  punctual  and  discontented  paymaster  in  the 
world  ;  drawing  his  coin  out  of  his  breeches  pocket  with  infinite 
reluctance  ;  paying  to  the  uttermost  farthing,  but  accompanying 
every  guinea  with  a  growl. 


242  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

With  all  his  talk  of  economy,  however,  he  is  a  bountiful  provider, 
and  a  hospitable  housekeeper.  His  economy  is  of  a  whimsical 
kind,  its  chief  object  being  to  devise  how  he  may  afford  to  be  ex 
travagant  ;  for  he  will  begrudge  himself  a  beefsteak  and  pint  of 
port  one  day,  that  he  may  roast  an  ox  whole,  broach  a  hogshead 
of  ale,  and  treat  all  his  neighbors  on  the  next. 

His  domestic  establishment  is  enormously  expensive :  not  so 
much  from  any  great  outward  parade,  as  from  the  great  consump 
tion  of  solid  beef  and  pudding ;  the  vast  number  of  followers  he 
feeds  and  clothes  ;  and  his  singular  disposition  to  pay  hugely  for  small 
services.  He  is  a  most  kind  and  indulgent  master,  and,  provided 
his  servants  humor  his  peculiarities,  flatter  his  vanity  a  little  now  and 
then,  and  do  not  peculate  grossly  on  him  before  his  face,  they  may 
manage  him  to  perfection.  Eveything  that  lives  on  him  seems  to 
thrive  and  grow  fat.  His  house-servants  are  well  paid  and  pam 
pered,  and  have  little  to  do.  His  horses  are  sleek  and  lazy,  and 
prance  slowly  before  his  state  carriage  ;  and  his  house-dogs  sleep 
quietly  about  the  door,  and  will  hardly  bark  at  a  house-breaker. 

His  family  mansion  is  an  old,  castellated  manor-house,  gray  with 
age,  and  of  a  most  venerable  though  weather-beaten  appearance. 
It  has  been  built  upon  no  regular  plan,  but  is  a  vast  accumulation 
of  parts,  erected  in  various  tastes  and  ages.  The  centre  bears 
evident  traces  of  Saxon  architecture,  and  is  as  solid  as  ponderous 
stone  and  old  English  oak  can  make  it.  Like  all  the  relics  of  that 
style,  it  is  full  of  obscure  passages,  intricate  mazes  and  dusky 
chambers  ;  and  though  these  have  been  partially  lighted  up  in 
modern  days,  yet  there  are  many  places  where  you  must  still  grope 
in  the  dark.  Additions  have  been  made  to  the  original  edifice 
from  time  to  time,  and  great  alterations  have  taken  place ;  towers 
and  battlements  have  been  erected  during  wars  and  tumults  :  wings 
built  in  time  of  peace  ;  and  out-houses,  lodges,  and  other  offices 
run  up  according  to  the  whim  or  convenience  of  different  genera 
tions,  until  it  has  become  one  of  the  most  spacious,  rambling  tene 
ments  imaginable.  An  entire  wing  is  taken  up  with  the  family 
chapel,  a  reverend  pile,  that  must  have  been  exceedingly  sumptuous, 
and,  indeed,  in  spite  of  having  been  altered  and  simplified  at  vari 
ous  periods,  has  still  a  look  of  solemn  religious  pomp.  Its  walls 
within  are  storied  with  the  monuments  of  John's  ancestors;  and  it 
is  snugly  fitted  up  with  soft  cushions  and  well-lined  chairs,  where 
such  of  his  family  as  are  inclined  to  church  services,  may  doze 
comfortably  in  the  discharge  of  their  duties. 

To  keep  up  this  chapel  has  cost  John  much  money  ;  but  he  is 
staunch  in  his  religion,  and  piqued  in  his  zeal,  from  the  circum- 


JOHN  BULL.  243 

stance  that  many  dissenting  chapels  have  been  erected  in  his 
vicinity,  and  several  of  his  neighbors,  with  whom  he  had  quarrels, 
are  strong  papists. 

To  do  the  duties  of  the  chapel  he  maintains,  at  a  large  expense, 
a  pious  and  portly  family  chaplain.  He  is  a  most  learned  and 
decorous  personage,  and  a  truly  well-bred  Christian,  who  always 
backs  the  old  gentleman  in  his  opinions,  winks  directly  at  his  little 
peccadilloes,  rebukes  the  children  when  refractory,  and  is  of  great 
use  in  exhorting  the  tenants  to  read  their  Bibles,  say  their  prayers, 
and,  above  all,  to  pay  their  rents  punctually  and  without  grumbling. 

The  family  apartments  are  in  a  very  antiquated  taste,  somewhat 
heavy,  and  often  inconvenient,  but  full  of  the  solemn  magnificence 
of  former  times ;  fitted  up  with  rich,  though  faded  tapestry,  un 
wieldy  furniture  and  loads  of  massy,  gorgeous  old  plate.  The  vast 
fireplaces,  ample  kitchens,  extensive  cellars  and  sumptuous  ban 
queting  halls,  all  speak  of  the  roaring  hospitality  of  days  of  yore, 
of  which  the  modern  festivity  at  the  manor-house  is  but  a  shadow. 
There  are,  however,  complete  suites  of  rooms  apparently  deserted 
and  time-worn ;  and  towers  and  turrets  that  are  tottering  to  decay ; 
so  that  in  high  winds  there  is  danger  of  their  tumbling  about  the 
ears  of  the  household. 

John  has  frequently  been  advised  to  have  the  old  edifice  thor 
oughly  overhauled  ;  and  to  have  some  of  the  useless  parts  pulled 
down,  and  the  others  strengthened  with  their  materials  ;  but  the 
old  gentleman  always  grows  testy  on  this  subject.  He  swears  the 
house  is  an  excellent  house — that  it  is  tight  and  weather  proof,  and 
not  to  be  shaken  by  tempests — that  it  has  stood  for  several  hun  ired 
years,  and,  therefore,  is  not  likely  to  tumble  down  now — that  as  *x> 
its  being  inconvenient,  his  family  is  accustomed  to  the  inconveni 
ences,  and  would  not  be  comfortable  without  them — that  as  to  its 
unwieldy  size  and  irregular  construction,  these  result  from  its  being 
the  growth  of  centuries,  and  being  improved  by  the  wisdom  of 
every  generation — that  an  old  family  like  his  requires  a  large  house 
to  dwell  in  ;  new,  upstart  families  may  live  in  modern  cottages 
and  snug  boxes ;  but  an  old  English  family  should  inhabit  an  old 
English  manor-house.  If  you  point  out  any  part  of  the  building 
as  superfluous,  he  insists  that  it  is  material  to  the  strength  or  decora 
tion  of  the  rest,  and  the  harmony  of  the  whole  ;  and  swears  that 
the  parts  are  so  built  into  each  other,  that  if  you  pull  down  one, 
you  run  the  risk  of  having  the  whole  about  your  ears. 

The  secret  of  the  matter  is,  that  John  has  a  great  disposition  to 
protect  and  patronize.  He  thinks  it  indispensable  to  the  dignity  of 
sin  ancient  and  honorable  family,  to  be  bounteous  in  its  appoint- 


244  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ments,  and  to  be  eaten  up  by  dependents;  and  so,  partly  from 
pride,  and  partly  from  kind-heartedness,  he  makes  it  a  rule  always 
to  give  shelter  and  maintenance  to  his  superannuated  servants. 

The  consequence  is,  that,  like  many  other  venerable  family  estab 
lishments,  his  manor  is  encumbered  by  old  retainers  whom  he  can 
not  turn  off,  and  an  old  style  which  he  cannot  lay  down.  His 
mansion  is  like  a  great  hospital  of  invalids,  and,  with  all  its  magni 
tude,  is  not  a  whit  too  large  for  its  inhabitants.  Not  a  nook  or 
corner  but  is  of  use  in  housing  some  useless  personage.  Groups 
of  veteran  beef-eaters,  gouty  pensioners,  and  retired  heroes  of  the 
buttery  and  the  larder,  are  seen  lolling  about  its  walls,  crawling 
over  its  lawns,  dozing  under  its  trees,  or  sunning  themselves  upon 
the  benches  at  its  doors.  Every  office  and  out-house  is  garrisoned 
by  those  supernumeraries  and  their  families  ;  for  they  are  amazingly 
prolific,  and  when  they  die  off  are  sure  to  leave  John  a  legacy  of 
hungry  mouths  to  be  provided  for.  A  mattock  cannot  be  struck 
against  the  most  mouldering,  tumble-down  tower,  but  out  pops, 
from  some  cranny  or  loop-hole,  the  gray  pate  of  some  superannu 
ated  hanger-on,  who  has  lived  at  John's  expense  all  his  life,  and 
makes  the  most  grievous  outcry  at  their  pulling  down  the  roof  from 
over  the  head  of  a  worn-out  servant  of  the  family.  This  is  an 
appeal  that  John's  honest  heart  never  can  withstand  ;  so  that  a 
man,  who  has  faithfully  eaten  his  beef  and  pudding  all  his  life  is 
sure  to  be  rewarded  with  a  pipe  and  tankard  in  his  old  days. 

A  great  part  of  his  park,  also,  is  turned  into  paddocks,  where  his 
broken-down  chargers  are  turned  loose  to  graze  undisturbed  for  the 
remainder  of  their  existence — a  worthy  example  of  grateful  recol 
lection,  which  if  some  of  his  neighbors  were  to  imitate,  would  not 
be  to  their  discredit.  Indeed,  it  is  one  of  his  great  pleasures  to 
point  out  these  old  steeds  to  his  visitors,  to  dwell  on  their  gcod 
qualities,  extol  their  past  services,  and  boast,  with  some  little  vain 
glory,  of  the  perilous  adventures  and  hardy  exploits  through  which 
they  have  carried  him. 

He  is  given,  however,  to  indulge  his  veneration  for  family 
usages,  and  family  incumberances,  to  a  whimsical  extent  His 
manor  is  infested  by  gangs  of  gipsies ;  yet  he  will  not  suffer 
them  to  be  driven  off,  because  they  have  infested  the  place 
time  out  of  mind,  and  been  regular  poachers  upon  every  genera 
tion  of  the  family.  He  will  scarcely  permit  a  dry  branch  to  be 
lopped  from  the  great  trees  that  surround  the  house,  lest  it  should 
molest  the  rooks  that  have  bred  there  for  centuries.  Owls  have 
taken  possession  of  the  dovecote  ;  but  they  are  hereditary  owls,  and 
must  not  be  disturbed.  Swallows  have  nearly  choked  up  every 


JOHN  BULL,  24$ 

chimney  with  their  nests  ;  martins  build  in  every  frieze  and  cornice ; 
crows  flutter  about  the  towers,  and  perch  on  every  weather-cock  ; 
and  old  gray-headed  rats  may  be  seen  in  every  quarter  of  the 
house,  running  in  and  out  of  their  holes  undauntedly  in  broad  day 
light.  In  short,  John  has  such  a  reverence  for  everything  that  has 
been  long  in  the  family,  that  he  will  not  hear  even  of  abuses  being 
reformed,  because  they  are  good  old  family  abuses. 

All  these  whims  and  habits  have  concurred  wofully  to  drain  the 
old  gentleman's  purse;  and  as  he  prides  himself  on  punctuality  in 
money  matters,  and  wishes  to  maintain  his  credit  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  they  have  caused  him  great  perplexity  in  meeting  hfs  engage 
ments.  This,  too,  has  been  increased  by  the  altercations  and 
heart-burnings  which  are  continually  taking  place  in  his  family. 
His  children  have  been  brought  up  to  different  callings,  and  are  of 
different  ways  of  thinking  ;  and  as  they  have  always  been  allowed 
to  speak  their  minds  freely,  they  do  not  fail  to  exercise  the  privi 
lege  most  clamorously  in  the  present  posture  of  his  affairs.  Some 
stand  up  for  the  honor  of  the  race,  and  are  clear  that  the  old  estab 
lishment  should  be  kept  up  in  all  its  state,  whatever  be  the  cost; 
others,  who  are  more  prudent  and  considerate,  entreat  the  old 
gentleman  to  retrench  his  expenses,  and  to  put  his  whole  system  of 
housekeeping  on  a  more  moderate  footing.  He  has,  indeed,  at 
times,  seemed  inclined  to  listen  to  their  opinions,  but  their  whole 
some  advice  has  been  completely  defeated  by  the  obstreperous  con 
duct  of  one  of  his  sons.  This  is  a  noisy,  rattle-pated  fellow  of 
rather  low  habits,  who  neglects  his  business  to  frequent  ale-houses 
— is  the  orator  of  village  clubs,  and  a  complete  oracle  among  the 
poorest  of  his  father's  tenants.  No  sooner  does  he  hear  any  of  his 
brothers  mention  reform  or  retrenchment,  than  up  he  jumps,  takes 
the  words  out  of  their  mouths,  and  roars  out  for  an  overturn. 
When  his  tongue  is  once  going  nothing  can  stop  it.  He  rants 
about  the  room ;  hectors  the  old  man  about  his  spendthrift  prac 
tices  ;  ridicules  his  tastes  and  pursuits  ;  insists  that  he  shall  turn 
the  old  servants  out  of  doors ;  give  the  broken-down  horses  to  the 
hounds  ;  send  the  fat  chaplain  packing,  and  take  a  field-preacher 
in  his  place — nay,  that  the  whole  family  mansion  shall  be  levelled 
with  the  ground,  and  a  plain  one  of  brick  and  mortar  built  in  its 
place.  He  rails  at  every  social  entertainment  and  family  festivity, 
and  skulks  away  growling  to  the  ale-house  whenever  an  equipage 
drives  up  to  the  door.  Though  constantly  complaining  of  the  empti 
ness  of  his  purse,  yet  he  scruples  not  to  spend  all  his  pocket-money  in 
these  tavern  convocations,  and  even  runs  up  scores  for  the  liquof 
over  which  he  preaches  about  his  father's  extavagance. 


*4*  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

It  may  readily  be  imagined  how  little  such  thwarting  agrees  with 
the  old  cavalier's  fiery  temperament.  He  has  become  so  irritable 
from  repeated  crossings,  that  the  mere  mention  of  retrenchment  or 
reform  is  a  signal  for  a  brawl  between  him  and  the  tavern  oracle. 
As  the  latter  is  too  sturdy  and  refractory  for  paternal  discipline, 
having  grown  out  of  all  fear  of  the  cudgel,  they  have  frequent 
scenes  of  wordy  warfare,  which  at  times  run  so  high,  that  John  is 
fain  to  call  in  the  aid  of  his  son  Tom,  an  officer  who  has  served 
abroad,  but  is  at  present  living  at  home,  on  half-pay.  This  last  is 
sure  to  stand  by  the  old  gentleman,  right  or  wrong  ;  likes  nothing 
so  much  as  a  racketing,  roystering  life  ;  and  is  ready  at  a  wink  or 
nod,  to  out  sabre,  and  flourish  it  over  the  orator's  head,  if  he  dares 
to  array  himself  against  paternal  authority. 

These  family  dissensions,  as  usual,  have  got  abroad,  and  are  rare 
food  for  scandal  in  John's  neighborhood.  People  begin  to  look 
wise,  and  shake  their  heads,  whenever  his  affairs  are  mentioned. 
They  all  "  hope  that  matters  are  not  so  bad  with  him  as  repre 
sented  ;  but  when  a  man's  own  children  begin  to  rail  at  his  extrava 
gance,  things  must  be  badly  managed.  They  understand  he  is 
mortgaged  over  head  and  ears,  and  is  continually  dabbling  with 
money  lenders.  He  is  certainly  an  open-handed  old  gentleman,  but 
they  fear  he  has  lived  too  fast ;  indeed,  they  never  knew  any  good 
come  of  this  fondness  for  hunting,  racing,  revelling  and  prize-fight 
ing.  In  short,  Mr.  Bull's  estate  is  a  very  fine  one,  and  has  been  in 
the  family  a  long  time ;  but,  for  all  that,  they  have  known  many 
finer  estates  come  to  the  hammer.  " 

What  is  worst  ©f  all,  is  the  effect  which  these  pecuniary  embar 
rassments  and  domestic  feuds  have  had  on  the  poor  man  himself. 
Instead  of  that  jolly  round  corporation,  and  smug,  rosy  face,  which 
he  used  to  present,  he  has  of  late  become  as  shrivelled  and  shrunk 
as  a  frost-bitten  apple.  His  scarlet,  gold-laced  waistcoat,  which 
bellied  out  so  bravely  in  those  prosperous  days  when  he  sailed  be 
fore  the  wind,  now  hangs  loosely  about  him  like  a  mainsail  in  a 
calm.  His  leather  breeches  are  all  in  folds  and  wrinkles,  and  ap 
parently  have  much  ado  to  hold  up  the  boots  that  yawn  on  both 
sides  of  his  once  sturdy  legs. 

Instead  of  strutting  about  as  formerly  with  his  three-cornered  hat 
on  one  side;  flourishing  his  cudgel,  and  bringing  it  down  every 
moment  with  a  hearty  thump  upon  the  ground  ;  looking  every  one 
sturdily  in  the  face,  and  trolling  out  a  stave  of  a  catch  or  a  drink 
ing  song  ;  he  now  goes  about  whistling  thoughtfully  to  himself,  with 
his  head  drooping  down,  his  cudgel  tucked  under  his  arm,  and  his 
hands  thrust  to  the  bottom  of  his  breeches  pockets,  which  are  evi 
dently  •mptv. 


JOHN  BULL.  34F 

Such  is  the  plight  of  honest  John  Bull  at  present ;  yet  for  all  this 
the  old  fellow's  spirit  is  as  tall  and  as  gallant  as  ever.  If  you  drop 
the  least  expression  of  sympathy  or  concern,  he  takes  fire  in  an  in 
stant  ;  swears  that  he  is  the  richest  and  stoutest  fellow  in  the  coun 
try  ;  talks  of  laying  out  large  sums  to  adorn  his  house  or  buy 
another  estate  ;  and  with  a  valiant  swagger  and  grasping  of  his  cud 
gel,  longs  exceedingly  to  have  another  bout  at  quarter-staff. 

Though  there  may  be  something  rather  whimsical  in  all  this,  yet 
I  confess  I  cannot  look  upon  John's  situation  without  strong  feelings 
of  interest.  With  all  hi?  odd  humors  and  obstinate  prejudices,  he 
is  a  sterling-hearted  old  blade.  He  may  not  be  so  wonderfully  fine 
a  fellow  as  he  thinks  himself,  but  he  is  at  least  twice  as  good  as  his 
neighbors  represent  him.  His  virtues  are  all  his  own  ;  all  plain, 
home-bred  and  unaffected.  His  very  faults  smack  of  the  raciness 
of  his  good  qualities.  His  extravagance  savors  of  his  generosity; 
his  quarrelsomeness  of  his  courage  ;  his  credulity  of  his  open  faith  ; 
his  vanity  of  his  pride  ;  and  his  bluntness  of  his  sincerity.  They  are 
til  the  redundancies  of  a  rich  and  liberal  character.  He  is  like  his 
own  oak,  rough  without,  but  sound  and  solid  within  ;  whose  bark 
abounds  with  excresences  in  proportion  to  the  growth  and  grandeur 
of  the  timber ;  and  whose  branches  make  a  fearful  groaning  and 
murmuring  in  the  least  storm,  from  their  very  magnitude  and  lux 
uriance.  There  is  something,  too,  in  the  appeavance  of  his  old 
family  mansion  that  is  extremely  poetical  and  picturesque  ;  and,  as 
long  as  it  can  be  rendered  comfortably  habitable,  I  should  almost 
tremble  to  see  it  meddled  with,  during  the  present  conflict  of  tastes 
and  opinions.  Some  of  his  advisers  are,  no  doubt,  good  architects, 
that  might  be  of  service  ;  but  many,  I  fear,  are  mere  levellers,  who, 
when  they  had  once  got  to  work  with  their  mattocks  on  this  vener 
able  edifice,  would  never  stop  until  they  had  brought  it  to  the 
ground,  and  perhaps  buried  themselves  among  the  ruins.  All  that 
I  wish  is,  that  John's  present  troubles  may  teach  him  more  pru 
dence  in  future.  That  he  may  cease  to  distress  his  mind  about 
other  people's  affairs  ;  that  he  may  give  up  the  fruitless  attempt  to 
promote  the  good  of  his  neighbors,  and  the  peace  and  happiness  of 
the  world,  by  dint  of  the  cudgel ;  that  he  may  remain  quietly  at 
home  ;  gradually  get  his  house  into  repair  ;  cultivate  his  rich  estate 
according  to  his  fancy  ;  husband  his  income — if  he  thinks  proper ; 
bring  his  unruly  children  into  order — if  he  can  ;  renew  the  jovial 
scenes  of  ancient  prosperity  ;  and  long  enjoy,  on  his  paternal  lands, 
a  green,  an  honorable,  and  a  merry  old  age. 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE. 

May  no  wolfe  howle ;  no  screech  owle  stir 

A  wing  about  thy  sepulchre ! 

No  boysterous  winds  or  stormes  come  hither, 

To  starve  or  wither 

Thy  soft  sweet  earth !  but,  like  a  spring, 
Love  kept  it  ever  flourishing. 

HERRICK. 

IN  the  course  of  an  excursion  through  one  of  the  remote  counties 
of  England,  I  had  struck  into  one  of  those  cross-roads  that 
lead  through  the  more  secluded  parts  of  the  country,  and 
stopped  one  afternoon  at  a  village,  the  situation  of  which  was 
beautifully  rural  and  retired.  There  was  an  air  of  primitive  sim 
plicity  about  its  inhabitants,  not  to  be  found  in  the  villages  which 
lie  on  the  great  coach-roads.  I  determined  to  pass  the  night  there, 
and,  having  taken  an  early  dinner,  strolled  out  to  enjoy  the  neigh 
boring  scenery. 

My  ramble,  as  is  usually  the  case  with  travellers,  soon  led  me  to 
the  church,  which  stood  at  a  little  distance  from  the  village.  Indeed, 
it  was  an  object  of  some  curiosity,  its  old  tower  being  completely 
overrun  with  ivy,  so  that  only  here  and  there  a  jutting  buttress,  an 
angle  of  gray  wall,  or  a  fantastically  carved  ornament,  peered 
through  the  verdant  covering.  It  was  a  lovely  evening.  The 
early  part  of  the  day  had  been  dark  and  showery,  but  in  the  after 
noon  it  had  cleared  up ;  and  though  sullen  clouds  still  hung  over 
head,  yet  there  was  a  broad  tract  of  golden  sky  in  the  west,  from 
which  the  setting  sun  gleamed  through  the  dripping  leaves,  and  lit 
up  all  nature  with  a  melancholy  smile.  It  seemed  like  the  parting 
hour  of  a  good  Christian,  smiling  on  the  sins  and  sorrows  of  the 
world,  and  giving,  in  the  serenity  of  his  decline,  an  assurance  that 
he  will  rise  again  in  glory. 

I  had  seated  myself  on  a  half-sunken  tombstone,  and  was  musing, 
as  one  is  apt  to  do  at  this  sober-thoughted  hour,  on  past  scenes 
and  early  friends — on  those  who  were  distant  and  those  who  were 
dead — and  indulging  in  that  kind  of  melancholy  fancying,  which 
has  in  it  something  sweeter  even  than  pleasure.  Every  now  and 
then,  the  stroke  of  a  bell  from  the  neighboring  tower  fell  on  my 
ear;  its  tones  were  in  unison  with  the  scene,  and,  instead  of  jarring, 
chimed  in  with  my  feelings ;  and  it  was  some  time  before  I  recol 
lected  that  it  must  be  tolling  the  knell  of  some  new  tenant  of  the 
tomb. 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE.  *£ 

'Presently  I  saw  a  funeral  train  moving  across  the  village  green ; 
it  wound  slowly  along  a  lane ;  was  lost,  and  reappeared  through 
the  breaks  of  the  hedges,  until  it  passed  the  place  where  I  was  sit 
ting.  The  pall  was  supported  by  young  girls,  dressed  in  white ; 
and  another,  about  the  age  of  seventeen,  walked  before,  bearing  a 
chaplet  of  white  flowers ;  a  token  that  the  deceased  was  a  young 
and  unmarried  female.  The  corpse  was  followed  by  the  parents. 
They  were  a  venerable  couple  of  the  better  order  of  peasantry. 
The  father  seemed  to  repress  his  feelings ;  but  his  fixed  eye,  con 
tracted  brow,  and  deeply -furrowed  face,  showed  the  struggle  that 
was  passing  within.  His  wife  hung  on  his  arm,  and  wept  aloud 
with  the  convulsive  bursts  of  a  mother's  sorrow. 

I  followed  the  funeral  into  the  church.  The  bier  was  placed  in 
the  centre  aisle,  and  the  chaplet  of  white  flowers,  with  a  pair  of 
white  gloves,  were  hung  over  the  seat  which  the  deceased  had 
occupied. 

Every  one  knows  the  soul-subduing  pathos  of  the  funeral  service  ; 
for  who  is  so  fortunate  as  never  to  have  followed  some  one  he  has 
loved  to  the  tomb  ?  but  when  performed  over  the  remains  of  inno 
cence  and  beauty,  thus  laid  low  in  the  bloom  of  existence — what 
can  be  more  affecting  ?  At  that  simple,  but  most  solemn  consign 
ment  of  the  body  to  the  grave — "  Earth  to  earth — ashes  to  ashes — 
dust  to  dust!" — the  tears  of  the  youthful  companions  of  the 
deceased  flowed  unrestrained.  The  father  still  seemed  to  struggle 
with  his  feelings,  and  to  comfort  himself  with  the  assurance,  that 
the  dead  are  blessed  which  die  in  the  Lord ;  but  the  mother  only 
thought  of  her  child  as  a  flower  of  the  field  cut  down  and  withered 
in  the  midst  of  its  sweetness;  she  was  like  Rachel,  "mourning 
over  her  children,  and  would  not  be  comforted." 

On  returning  to  the  inn,  I  learned  the  whole  story  of  the  deceased. 
It  was  a  simple  one,  and  such  as  has  often  been  told.  She  had* 
been  the  beauty  and  pride  of  the  village.  Her  father  had  once 
been  an  opulent  farmer,  but  was  reduced  in  circumstances.  This 
was  an  only  child,  and  brought  up  entirely  at  home,  in  the  sim 
plicity  of  rural  life.  She  had  been  the  pupil  of  the  village  pastor, 
the  favorite  lamb  of  his  little  flock.  The  good  man  watched  over 
her  education  with  paternal  care ;  it  was  limited,  and  suitable  to 
the  sphere  in  which  she  was  to  move  ;  for  he  only  sought  to  make 
her  an  ornament  to  her  station  in  life,  not  to  raise  her  above  it. 
The  tenderness  and  indulgence  of  her  parents,  and  the  exemption 
from  all  ordinary  occupations,  had  fostered  a  natural  grace  and 
delicacy  of  character,  that  accorded  with  the  fragile  loveliness  of 
her  form.  She  appeared  like  some  tender  plant  of  the  garden, 
blooming,  accidentally,  amid  the  hardier  natives  of  the  fields. 


2  $o  THE  SKETCHY  O  OK. 

The  superiority  of  her  charms  was  felt  and  acknowledged  by 
her  companions,  but  without  envy  ;  for  it  was  surpassed  by  the 
unassuming  gentleness  and  winning  kindness  of  her  manners.  It 
might  be  truly  said  of  her  : 

"This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass,  that  ever 
Ran  on  the  green-sward;  nothing  she  does  or  seems, 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself; 
Too  noble  for  this  place. ' ' 

The  village  was  one  of  those  sequestered  spots,  which  still  retain 
some  vestiges  of  old  English  customs.  It  had  its  rural  festivals 
and  holiday  pastimes,  and  still  kept  up  some  faint  observance  of 
the  once  popular  rites  of  May.  These,  indeed,  had  been  promoted 
by  its  present  pastor,  who  was  a  lover  of  old  customs,  and  one  of 
those  simple  Christians  that  think  their  mission  fulfilled  by  pro 
moting  joy  on  earth  and  good-will  among  mankind.  Under  his 
auspices  the  May-pole  stood  from  year  to  year  in  the  centre  of  the 
village  green;  on  May-day  it  was  decorated  with  garlands  and 
streamers;  and  a  queen  or  lady  of  the  May  was  appointed,  as  in 
former  times,  to  preside  at  the  sports,  and  distribute  the  prizes  and 
rewards.  The  picturesque  situation  of  the  village,  and  the  fanci- 
fulness  of  its  rustic  fetes,  would  often  attract  the  notice  of  casual 
visitors.  Among  these,  on  one  May-day,  was  a  young  officer, 
whose  regiment  had  been  recently  quartered  in  the  neighborhood. 
He  was  charmed  with  the  native  taste  that  pervaded  this  village 
pageant;  but,  above  all,  with  the  dawning  loveliness  of  the  queen 
of  May.  It  was  the  village  favorite,  who  was  crowned  with  flowers, 
and  blushing  and  smiling  in  all  the  beautiful  confusion  of  girlish 
diffidence  and  delight.  The  artlessness  of  rural  habits  enabled 
,Jhim  readily  to  make  her  acquaintance;  he  gradually  won  his  way  into 
her  intimacy  ;  and  paid  his  court  to  her  in  that  unthinking  way  in 
which  young  officers  are  too  apt  to  trifle  with  rustic  simplicity. 

There  was  nothing  in  his  advances  to  startle  or  alarm.  He  never 
even  talked  of  love :  but  there  are  modes  of  making  it  more  elo 
quent  than  language,  and  which  convey  it  subtilely  and  irresistibly 
to  the  heart.  The  beam  of  the  eye,  the  tone  of  voice,  the  thousand 
tendernesses  which  emanate  from  every  word,  and  look,  and 
action — these  form  the  true  eloquence  of  love,  and  can  always  be 
felt  and  understood,  but  never  described.  Can  we  wonder  that 
they  should  readily  win  a  heart,  young,  guileless  and  susceptible? 
As  to  her,  she  loved  almost  unconsciously ;  she  scarcely  inquired 
what  was  the  growing  passion  that  was  absorbing  every  thought  and 
feeling,  or  what  were  to  be  its  consequences.  She,  indeed,  looked 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE.  25  i 

not  to  the  future.  When  present,  his  looks  and  words  occupied  her 
whole  attention  ;  when  absent,  she  thought  but  of  what  had  passed  at 
their  recent  interview.  She  would  wander  with  him  through  the 
green  lanes  and  rural  scenes  of  the  vicinity.  He  taught  her  to 
see  new  beauties  in  nature ;  he  talked  in  the  language  of  polite  and 
cultivated  life,  and  breathed  into  her  ear  the  witcheries  of  romance 
and  poetry. 

Perhaps  there  could  not  have  been  a  passion,  between  the  sexes, 
more  pure  than  this  innocent  girl's.  The  gallant  figure  of  her 
youthful  admirer,  and  the  spendor  of  his  military  attire,  might  at 
first  have  charmed  her  eye  ;  but  it  was  not  these  that  had  captivated 
her  heart.  Her  attachment  had  something  in  it  of  idolatry.  She 
looked  up  to  him  as  to  a  being  of  a  superior  order.  She  felt  in  his 
society  the  enthusiasm  of  a  mind  naturally  delicate  and  poetical, 
and  now  first  awakened  to  a  keen  perception  of  the  beautiful  and 
grand.  Of  the  sordid  distinctions  of  rank  and  fortune  she  thought 
nothing;  it  was  the  difference  of  intellect,  of  demeanor,  of  manners, 
from  those  of  the  rustic  society  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed, 
that  elevated  him  in  her  opinion.  She  would  listen  to  him  with 
charmed  ear  and  downcast  look  of  mute  delight,  and  her  cheek 
would  mantle  with  enthusiasm;  or  if  ever  she  ventured  a  shy  glance 
of  timid  adrniration,  it  was  as  quickly  withdrawn,  and  she  would 
sigh  and  blush  at  the  idea  of  her  comparative  unworthiness. 

Her  lover  was  equally  impassioned  ;  but  his  passion  was  min 
gled  with  feelings  of  a  coarser  nature.  He  had  begun  the  connec 
tion  in  levity;  for  he  had  often  heard  his  brother  officers  boast  of 
their  village  conquests,  and  thought  some  triumph  of  the  kind  ne 
cessary  to  his  reputation  as  a  man  of  spirit.  But  he  was  too  full  of 
youthful  fervor.  His  heart  had  not  yet  been  rendered  sufficiently 
cold  and  selfish  by  a  wandering  and  a  dissipated  life  :  it  caught  fire 
from  the  very  flame  it  sought  to  kindle  ;  and  before  he  was  aware 
of  the  nature  of  his  situation,  he  became  really  in  love. 

What  was  he  to  do  ?  There  were  the  old  obstacles  which  so 
incessantly  occur  in  these  heedless  attachments.  His  rank  in  life 
— the  prejudices  of  titled  connections — his  dependence  upon  a  proud 
and  unyielding  father — all  forbad  him  to  think  of  matrimony  : — 
but  when  he  looked  down  upon  this  innocent  being,  so  tender  and 
confiding,  there  was  a  purity  in  her  manners,  a  blamelessness  in 
her  life,  and  a  beseeching  modesty  in  her  looks  that  awed  down  every 
licentious  feeling.  In  vain  did  he  try  to  fortify  himself  by  a  thou 
sand  heartless  examples  of  men  of  fashion ;  and  to  chill  the  glow 
of  generous  sentiment  with  that  cold,  derisive  levity  with  which  he 
had  heard  them  talk  of  female  virtue  :  whenever  he  came  into  her 


2$2  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

presence,  she  was  still  surrounded  by  that  mysterious  but  impassive 
charm  of  virgin  purity  in  whose  hallowed  sphere  no  guilty  thought 
can  live. 

The  sudden  arrival  of  orders  for  the  regiment  to  repair  to  the 
continent  completed  the  confusion  of  his  mind.  He  remained  for 
a  short  time  in  a  state  of  the  most  painful  irresolution  ;  he  hesitated 
to  communicate  the  tidings  until  the  day  for  marching  was  at  hand; 
when  he  gave  her  the  intelligence  in  the  course  of  an  evening 
ramble. 

The  idea  of  parting  had  never  before  occurred  to  her.  It  broke 
in  at  once  upon  her  dream  of  felicity  ;  she  looked  upon  it  as  a  sud 
den  and  insurmountable  evil,  and  wept  with  the  guileless  simplicity 
of  a  child.  He  drew  her  to  his  bosom,  and  kissed  the  tears  from 
her  soft  cheek;  nor  did  he  meet  with  a  repulse,  for  there  are 
moments  of  mingled  sorrow  and  tenderness,  which  hallow  the 
caresses  of  affection.  He  was  naturally  impetuous  ;  and  the  sight 
of  beauty,  apparently  yielding  in  his  arms,  the  confidence  of  his 
power  over  her,  and  the  dread  of  losing  her  forever,  all  conspired 
to  overwhelm  his  better  feelings — he  ventured  to  propose  that  she 
should  leave  her  home,  and  be  the  companion  of  his  fortunes. 

He  was  quite  a  novice  at  seduction,  and  blushed  and  faltered  at 
his  own  baseness  ;  but  so  innocent  of  mind  was  his  intended  victim, 
that  she  was  at  first  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  his  meaning;  and  why 
she  should  leave  her  native  village,  and  the  humble  roof  of  her 
parents.  When  at  last  the  nature  of  his  proposal  flashed  upon  her 
pure  mind,  the  effect  was  withering.  She  did  not  weep— she  did 
not  break  forth  into  reproach — she  said  not  a  word — but  she  shrunk 
back  aghast  as  from  a  viper ;  gave  him  a  look  of  anguish  that 
pierced  to  his  very  soul ;  and,  clasping  her  hands  in  agony,  fled,  as 
if  for  refuge,  to  her  father's  cottage. 

The  officer  retired,  confounded,  humiliated  and  repentant.  It  is 
uncertain  what  might  have  been  the  result  of  the  conflict  of  his 
feelings,  had  not  his  thoughts  been  diverted  by  the  bustle  of 
departure.  New  scenes,  new  pleasures,  and  new  companions,  soon 
dissipated  his  self-reproach,  and  stifled  his  tenderness ;  yet,  Amidst 
the  stir  of  camps,  the  revelries  of  garrisons,  the  array  of  armies, 
and  even  the  din  of  battles,  his  thoughts  would  sometimes  steal 
back  to  the  scenes  of  rural  quiet  and  village  simplicity — the  white 
cottage — the  footpath  along  the  silver  brook  and  up  the  hawthorn 
hedge,  and  the  little  village  maid  loitering  along  it,  leaning  on  his 
arm,  and  listening  to  him  with  eyes  beaming  with  unconscious 
affection. 

The  shock  which  the  poor  girl  had  received,  in  the  destruction 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE.  253 

of  all  her  ideal  world,  had  indeed  been  cruel.  Paintings  and  hys 
terics  had  at  first  shaken  her  tender  frame,  and  were  succeeded  by 
a  settled  and  pining  melancholy.  She  had  beheld  from  her  window 
the  march  of  the  departing  troops.  She  had  seen  her  faithless 
lover  borne  off,  as  if  in  triumph,  amidst  the  sound  of  drum  and 
trumpet,  anc.  the  pomp  of  arms.  She  strained  a  last  aching  gaze 
after  him,  as  the  morning  sun  glittered  about  his  figure,  and  hi? 
plume  waved  in  the  breeze ;  he  passed  away  like  a  bright  vision 
from  her  sight,  and  left  her  all  in  darkness. 

It  would  be  trite  to  dwell  on  the  particulars  of  her  after  story.  It 
was,  like  other  tales  of  love,  melancholy.  She  avoided  society, 
and  wandered  out  alone  in  the  walks  she  had  most  frequented  with 
her  lover.  She  sought,  like  the  stricken  deer,  to  weep  in  silence 
and  loneliness,  and  brood  over  the  barbed  sorrow  that  rankled  in 
her  soul.  Sometimes  she  would  be  seen  late  of  an  evening  sitting 
in  the  porch  of  the  village  church ;  and  the  milkmaids,  returning 
from  the  fields,  would  now  and  then  overhear  her  singing  some 
plaintive  ditty  in  the  hawthorn  walk.  She  became  fervent  in  her 
devotions  at  church ;  and  as  the  old  people  saw  her  approach,  so 
wasted  away,  yet  with  a  hectic  gloom,  and  that  hallowed  air  which 
melancholy  diffuses  round  the  form,  they  would  make  way  for  her, 
as  for  something  spiritual,  and,  looking  after  her,  would  shake 
their  heads  in  gloomy  foreboding. 

She  felt  a  conviction  that  she  was,  hastening  to  the  tomb,  but 
looked  forward  to  it  as  a  place  of  rest.  The  silver  cord  that  had 
bound  her  to  existence  was  loosed,  and  there  seemed  to  be  no 
more  pleasure  under  the  sun.  If  ever  her  gentle  bosom  had  enter 
tained  resentment  against  her  lover,  it  was  extinguished.  She  was 
incapable  of  angry  passions ;  and  in  a  moment  of  saddened  ten 
derness,  she  penned  him  a  farewell  letter.  It  was  couched  in  the 
simplest  language,  but  touching  from  its  very  simplicity.  She  told 
him  that  she  was  dying,  and  did  not  conceal  from  him  that  his 
conduct  was  the  cause.  She  even  depicted  the  sufferings  which 
she  had  experienced  ;  but  concluded  with  saying,  that  she  could 
not  die  in  peace,  until  she  had  sent  him  her  forgiveness  and  her 
blessing. 

By  degrees  her  strength  declined,  that  she  could  no  longer  leave 
the  cottage.  She  could  only  totter  to  the  window,  where,  propped 
up  in  her  chair,  it  was  her  enjoyment  to  sit  all  day  and  look  out 
upon  the  landscape.  Still  she  uttered  no  complaint,  nor  imparted 
to  any  one  the  malady  that  was  preying  on  her  heart.  She  never 
even  mentioned  her  lover's  name  ;  but  would  lay  her  head  on  her 
mother's  bosom  and  weep  in  silence.  Her  poor  parents  hung,  in 


254  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

mute  anxiety,  over  this  fading  blossom  of  their  hopes,  still  flattering 
themselves  that  it  might  again  revive  to  freshness,  and  that  the 
bright,  unearthly  bloom  which  sometimes  flushed  her  cheek  might 
be  the  promise  of  returning  health. 

In  this  way  she  was  seated  between  them  one  Sunday  afternoon; 
her  hands  were  clasped  in  theirs,  the  lattice  was  thrown  open,  and 
the  soft  air  that  stole  in  brought  with  it  the  fragrance  of  the  cluster 
ing  honeysuckle  which  her  own  hands  had  trained  round  the 
window. 

Her  father  had  just  been  reading  a  chapter  in  the  Bible:  it  spoke 
of  the  vanity  of  worldly  things,  and  of  the  joys  of  heaven:  it 
seemed  to  have  diffused  comfort  and  serenity  through  her  bosom. 
Her  eye  was  fixed  on  the  distant  village  church;  the  bell  had  tolled 
for  the  evening  service :  the  last  villager  was  lagging  into  the 
porch  ;  and  everything  had  sunk  into  that  hallowed  stillness  pecu 
liar  to  the  day  of  rest.  Her  parents  were  gazing  on  her  with 
yearning  hearts.  Sickness  and  sorrow,  which  pass  so  roughly  over 
some  faces,  had  given  to  hers  the  expression  of  a  seraph's.  A  tear 
tremblad  in  her  soft  blue  eye.  Was  she  thinking  of  her  faithless 
lover? — or  were  her  thoughts  wandering  to  that  distant  church 
yard,  into  whose  bosom  she  might  soon  be  gathered  ? 

Suddenly  the  clang  of  hoofs  was  heard — a  horseman  galloped  to 
the  cottage — he  dismounted  before  the  window — the  poor  girl  gave 
a  faint  exclamation,  and  sunk  back  in  her  cha'r :  it  was  her  repent 
ant  lover !  He  rushed  into  the  house,  and  flew  to  clasp  her  to  his 
bosom;  but  her  wasted  form — her  death-like  countenance — so  wan, 
yet  so  lovely  in  its  desolation, — smote  him  to  the  soul,  and  he  threw 
himself  in  agony  at  her  feet.  She  was  too  faint  to  rise — she 
attempted  to  extend  her  trembling  hand — her  lips  moved  as  if  she 
spoke,  but  no  word  was  articulated — she  looked  down  upon  him 
with  a  smile  of  unutterable  tenderness, — and  closed  her  eyes  foi 
ever! 

Such  are  the  particulars  which  I  gathered  of  this  village  story. 
They  are  but  scanty,  and  I  am  conscious  have  little  novelty  to 
recommend  them.  In  the  present  rage,  also,  for  strange  incident 
and  high-seasoned  narrative,  they  may  appear  trite  and  insignifi- 
,  cant,  but  they  interested  me  strongly  at  the  time  ;  and,  taken  in 
connection  with  the  affecting  ceremony  which  I  had  just  witnessed, 
left  a  deeper  impression  on  my  mind  than  many  circumstances  of  a 
more  striking  nature.  I  have  passed  through  the  place  since,  and 
visited  the  church  again,  from  a  better  motive  than  mere  curiosity. 
It  was  a  wintry  evening  ;  the  trees  were  stripped  of  their  foliage; 
the  church-yard  looked  naked  and  mournful,  and  the  wind  rustled 


THE  ANGLER.  255 

coldly  through  the  dry  grass.  Evergreens,  however,  had  been 
planted  about  the  grave  of  the  village  favorite,  and  osiers  were 
bent  over  it  to  keep  the  turf  uninjured. 

The  church  door  was  open,  and  I  stepped  in.  There  hung  the 
chaplet  of  flowers  and  the  gloves,  as  on  the  day  of  the  funeral : 
the  flowers  were  withered,  it  is  true,  but  care  seemed  to  have  been 
taken  that  no  dust  should  soil  their  whiteness.  I  have  seen  many 
monuments,  where  art  has  exhausted  its  powers  to  awaken  the  sym 
pathy  of  the  spectator,  but  I  have  met  with  none  that  spoke  more 
touchingly  to  my  heart,  than  this  simple  but  delicate  memento  of 
departed  innocence. 


THE  ANGLER. 

This  day  dame  Nature  seem'd  in  love, 

The  lusty  sap  began  to  move, 

Fresh  juice  did  stir  th'  embracing  vines 

And  birds  had  drawn  their  valentines. 

The  jealous  trout  that  low  did  lie, 

Rose  at  a  well-dissembled  flie. 

There  stood  my  friend,  with  patient  skill, 

Attending  of  his  trembling  quill. 

SIR  H.  WOTTON. 

IT  is  said  that  many  an  unlucky  urchin  is  induced  to  run  away 
from  his  family,  and  betake  himself  to  a  seafaring  life,  from, 
reading  the  history  of  Robinson  Crusoe ;  and  I  suspect  that,  in 
like  manner,  many  of  these  worthy  gentlemen  who  are  given  to 
haunt  the  sides  of  pastoral  streams  with  angle  rods  in  hand,  may 
trace  the  origin  of  their  passion  to  the  seductive  pages  of  honest 
Izaak  Walton.  I  recollect  studying  his  "  Complete  Angler"  sev 
eral  years  since,  in  company  with  a  knot  of  friends  in  America,  and, 
moreover,  that  we  were  all  completely  bitten  with  the  angling 
mania.  It  was  early  in  the  year  ;  but  as  soon  as  the  weather  was 
auspicious,  and  that  the  spring  began  to  melt  into  the  verge  of 
summer,  we  took  rod  in  hand  and  sallied  into  the  country,  as  stark 
mad  as  was  ever  Don  Quixote  from  reading  books  of  chivalry. 

One  of  our  party  had  equalled  the  Don  in  the  fullness  of  his 
equipments:  being  attired  cap-a-pie  for  the  enterprise.  He  wore 
a  broad-skirted,  fustian  coat,  perplexed  with  half  a  hundred  pockets; 
a  pair  of  stout  shoes  and  leather  gaiters ;  a  basket  slung  on  one 
side  for  fish  ;  a  patent  rod,  a  landing  net,  and  a  score  of  other  incon 
veniences,  only  to  be  found  in  the  true  angler's  armory.  Thus 
harnessed  for  the  field,  he  was  as  great  a  matter  of  stare  and  won- 


:  $6  THE  SKETCH-B  O  OK. 

derment  among  the  country  folk,  who  had  never  seen  a  regulat 
angler,  as  was  the  steel-clad  hero  of  La  Mancha  among  the  goat 
herds  of  the  Sierra  Morena. 

Our  first  essay  was  along  a  mountain  brook,  among  the  highlands 
of  the  Hudson  ;  a  most  unfortunate  place  for  the  execution  of  those 
piscatory  tactics  which  had  been  invented  along  the  velvet  margins 
of  quiet  English  rivulets.  It  was  one  of  those  wild  streams  that 
lavish,  among  our  romantic  solitudes,  unheeded  beauties  enough 
to  fill  the  sketch-book  of  a  hunter  of  the  picturesque.  Sometimes 
it  would  leap  down  rocky  shelves,  making  small  cascades,  over 
which  the  trees  threw  their  broad,  balancing  sprays,  and  long,  name 
less  weeds  hung  in  fringes  from  the  impending  banks,  dripping  with 
diamond  drops.  Sometimes  it  would  brawl  and  fret  along  a  ravine 
in  the  matted  shade  of  a  forest,  filling  it  with  murmurs ;  and,  after 
this  termagant  career,  would  steal  forth  into  open  day  with  the  most 
placid,  demure  face  imaginable ;  as  I  have  seen  some  pestilent  shrew 
of  a  housewife,  after  filling  her  home  with  uproar  and  ill-humor, 
come  dimpling  out  of  doors,  swimming  and  courtesying,  and  smil 
ing  upon  all  the  world. 

How  smoothly  would  this  vagrant  brook  glide,  at  such  times, 
through  some  bosom  of  green  meadow-land  among  the  mountains : 
where  the  quiet  was  only  interrupted  by  the  occasional  tinkling  of  a 
bell  from  the  lazy  cattle  among  the  clover,  or  the  sound  of  a  wood 
cutter's  axe  from  the  neighboring  forest. 

For  my  part,  I  was  always  a  bungler  at  all  kinds  of  sport  that 
required  either  patience  or  adroitness,  and  had  not  angled  above 
half  an  hour  before  I  had  completely  "satisfied  the  sentiment/' 
and  convinced  myself  of  the  truth  of  Izaak  Walton's  opinion,  that 
angling  is  something  like  poetry — a  man  must  be  born  to  it.  I 
hooked  myself  instead  of  the  fish  ;  tangled  my  line  in  every  tree  ; 
lost  my  bait ;  broke  my  rod;  until  I  gave  up  the  attempt  in  despair, 
and  passed  the  day  under  the  trees  reading  old  Izaak  ;  satisfied 
that  it  was  his  fascinating  vein  of  honest  simplicity  aa«l  rural  feeling 
that  had  bewitched  me,  and  not  the  passion  for  angling.  My  com 
panions,  however,  were  more  persevering  in  their  delusion.  I  have 
them  at  this  moment  before  my  eyes,  stealing  along  the  border  of 
the  brook,  where  it  lay  open  to  the  day,  or  was  merely  fringed  by 
shrubs  and  bushes.  I  see  the  bittern  rising  with  hollow  scream  as 
they  break  in  upon  his  rarely-invaded  haunt ;  the  king-fisher  watch 
ing  them  suspiciously  from  his  dry  tree  that  overhangs  the  deep, 
black  mill-pond,  in  the  gorge  of  the  hills  ;  the  tortoise  letting  him 
self  slip  sideways  from  off  the  stone  or  log  on  which  he  is  sunning 
himself ;  and  the  panic-struck  frog  plumping  in  headlong  as  thej 


THE  ANGLER.  257 

approach,  and  spreading  an  alarm  throughout  the  watery   world 
around. 

I  recollect,  also,  that,  after  toiling  and  watching  and  creeping 
about  for  the  greater  part  of  a  day,  with  scarcely  any  success,  in 
spite  of  all  our  admirable  apparatus,  a  lubberly,  country  urchin 
came  down  from  the  hills  with  a  rod  made  from  a  branch  of  a  tree, 
a  few  yards  of  twine,  and,  as  Heaven  shall  help  me  !  I  believe,  a 
crooked  pin  for  a  hook,  baited  with  a  vile  earth-worm — and  in  half 
an  hour  caught  more  fish  than  we  had  nibbles  throughout  the  day  ! 

But,  above  all,  I  recollect  the  "good,  honest,  wholesome, 
hungry"  repast,  which  we  made  under  a  beech-tree,  just  by  a 
spring  of  pure,  sweet  water  that  stole  out  of  the  side  of  a  hill;  and 
how,  when  it  was  over,  one  of  the  party  read  old  Izaak  Walton's 
scene  with  the  milkmaid,  while  I  lay  on  the  grass  and  built  castles^ 
in  a  bright  pile  of  clouds,  until  I  fell  asleep.  All  this  may  appear 
like  mere  egotism  ;  yet  I  cannot  refrain  from  uttering  these  recol 
lections,  which  are  passing  like  a  strain  of  music  over  my  mind, 
and  have  been  called  up  by  an  agreeable  scene  which  I  witnessed 
not  long  since. 

In  a  morning's  stroll  along  the  banks  of  the  Alun,  a  beautiful 
little  stream  which  flows  down  from  the  Welsh  hills  and  throws 
itself  into  the  Dee,  my  attention  was  attracted  to  a  group  seated  on 
the  margin.  On  approaching,  I  found  it  to  consist  of  a  veteran 
angler  and  two  rustic  disciples.  The  former  was  an  old  fellow 
with  a  wooden  leg,  with  clothes  very  much  but  very  carefully 
patched,  betokening  poverty,  honestly  come  by  and  decently 
maintainedo  His  face  bore  the  marks  of  former  storms,  but  present 
fair  weather ;  its  furrows  had  been  worn  into  an  habitual  smile ;  his 
iron-gray  locks  hung  about  his  ears,  and  he  had  altogether  the 
good-humored  air  of  a  constitutional  philosopher  who  was  disposed 
to  take  the  world  as  it  went.  One  of  his  companions  was  a  ragged 
wight,  with  the  skulking  look  of  an  arrant  poacher,  and  I'll  war 
rant  could  find  his  way  to  any  gentleman's  fish-pond  in  the  neigh 
borhood  in  the  darkest  night.  The  other  was  a  tall,  awkward,  coun 
try  lad,  with  a  lounging  gait  and  apparently  somewhat  of  a  rustic 
beau.  The  old  man  was  busy  in  examining  the  maw  of  a  trout  which 
he  had  just  killed,  to  discover  by  its  contents  what  insects  were  season 
able  for  bait ;  and  was  lecturing  on  the  subject  to  his  companions 
who  appeared  to  listen  with  infinite  deference.  I  have  a  kind 
feeling  towards  all  "  brothers  of  the  angle,"  ever  since  I  read  Izaak 
Walton.  They  are  men,  he  affirms,  of  a  "mild,  sweet  and  peace 
able  spirit ; ' '  and  my  esteem  for  them  has  been  increased  since  I 
met  with  an  old  "  Tretyse  of  fishing  with  the  Angle,"  in  which  are 
9 


258  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

set  forth  many  of  the  maxims  of  their  inoffensive  fraternity.  '"Take 
good  hede,"  sayeth  this  honest  little  tretyse,  "that  in  going  about 
your  disportes  ye  open  no  man's  gates  but  that  ye  shet  them  again. 
Also  ye  shall  not  use  this  forsayd  crafti  disport  for  no  covetousness 
to  the  encreasing  and  sparing  of  your  money  only,  but  principally 
for  your  solace,  and  to  cause  the  helth  of  your  body  and  specyally 
of  your  soule."* 

I  thought  that  I  could  perceive  in  the  veteran  angler  before  me 
an  exemplification  of  what  I  had  read ;  and  there  was  a  cheerful  con- 
tentedness  in  his  looks  that  quite  drew  me  towards  him.  I  could  not 
but  remark  the  gallant  manner  in  which  he  stumped  from  one  part 
of  the  brook  to  another ;  waving  his  rod  in  the  air,  to  keep  the 
line  from  dragging  on  the  ground  or  catching  among  the  bushes  ; 
and  the  adroitness  with  which  he  would  throw  his  fly  to  any  par 
ticular  place  ;  sometimes  skimming  it  lightly  along  a  little  rapid ; 
sometimes  casting  it  into  one  of  those  dark  holes  made  by  a  twisted 
root  or  overhanging  bank,  in  which  the  large  trout  are  apt  to  lurk. 
In  the  meanwhile  he  was  giving  instructions  to  his  two  disciples  ; 
showing  them  the  manner  in  which  they  should  handle  their  rods, 
fix  their  flies,  and  play  them  along  the  surface  of  the  stream.  The 
scene  brought  to  my  mind  the  instructions  of  the  sage  Piscator  to  his 
scholar.  The  country  around  was  of  that  pastoral  kind  which 
Walton  is  fond  of  describing.  It  was  a  part  of  the  great  plain  cf 
Cheshire,  close  by  the  beautiful  vale  of  Gessford,  and  just  where  the 
inferior  Welsh  hills  begin  to  swell  up  from  fresh-smelling  meadows. 
The  day,  too,  like  that  recorded  in  his  work,  was  mild  and  sunn 
shiny,  with  now  and  then  a  soft-dropping  shower,  that  sowed  the 
whole  earth  with  diamonds. 

I  soon  fell  into  conversation  with  the  old  angler,  and  was  so 
much  entertained  that,  under  pretext  of  receiving  instructions  in  his 
art,  I  kept  company  with  him  almost  the  whole  day ;  wandering 
along  the  banks  of  the  stream  and  listening  to  his  talk.  He  was 
very  communicative,  having  all  the  easy  garrulity  of  cheerful  old 
age;  and,  I  fancy,  was  a  little  flattered  by  having  an  opportunity  of 
displaying  his  piscatory  lore  ;  for  who  does  not  like  now  and  then 
to  play  the  sage  ? 

He  had  been  much  of  a  rambler  in  his  day,  and  had  passed 
some  years  of  his  youth  in  America,  particularly  in  Savannah, 

*  From  this  same  treatise,  it  would  appear  that  angling  is  a  more  industri 
ous  and  devout  employment  than  it  is  generally  considered.  "For  when  ye 
purpose  to  go  on  your  disports  in  fishynge  ye  will  not  clesyre  greatlye  many 
persons  with  you,  \\hich  might  let  you  of  your  game.  And  that  ye  may  serve 
God  devoutly  in  savin  go  effectually  your  customable  prayers.  And  tuns 
doying,  ye  shall  eschew  and  also  avoyde  many  vices,  as  ydelnes,  which  ts 
principal!  cause  to  induce  man  to  many  other  vices,  as  it  is  right  well  known." 


THE  ANGLER.  259 

where  he  had  entered  into  trade,  and  had  been  ruined  by  the  indis 
cretion  of  a  partner.  He  had  afterwards  experienced  many  ups 
and  downs  in  life,  until  he  got  into  the  navy,  where  his  leg  was 
carried  away  by  a  cannon  ball,  at  the  battle  of  Camperdown. 
This  was  the  only  stroke  of  real  good  fortune  he  had  ever 
experienced,  for  it  got  him  a  pension,  which,  together  with  some 
small  paternal  property,  brought  him  in  a  revenue  of  nearly  forty 
pounds.  On  this  he  retired  to  his  native  village,  where  he  lived 
quietly  and  independently  ;  and  devoted  the  remainder  of  his  life 
to  the  "noble  art  of  angling." 

I  found  that  he  had  read  Izaak  Walton  attentively,  and  he 
seemed  to  have  imbibed  all  his  simple  frankness  and  prevalent 
good-humor.  Though  he  had  been  sorely  buffeted  about  the 
world,  he  was  satisfied  that  the  world,  in  itself,  was  good  and 
beautiful.  Though  he  had  been  as  roughly  used  in  different 
countries  as  a  poor  sheep  that  is  fleeced  by  every  hedge  and  thicket, 
yet  he  spoke  of  every  nation  with  candor  and  kindness,  appearing 
to  look  only  on  the  good  side  of  things:  and,  above  all,  he  was 
almost  the  only  man  I  had  ever  met  with  who  had  been  an  unfor 
tunate  adventurer  in  America,  and  had  honesty  and  magnanimity 
enough  to  take  the  fault  to  his  own  door,  and  not  to  curse  the 
country.  The  lad  that  was  receiving  his  instructions,  I  learnt, 
was  the  son  and  heir  apparent  of  a  fat  old  widow  who  kept  the 
village  inn,  and,  of  course,  a  youth  of  some  expectation,  and  much 
courted  by  the  idle,  gentlemanlike  personages  of  the  place. 
In  taking  him  under  his  care,  therefore,  the  old  man  had,  probably, 
an  eye  to  a  privileged  corner  in  the  tap-room,  and  an  occasional 
cup  of  cheerful  ale  free  of  expense. 

There  is  certainly  something  in  angling,  if  we  could  forget,  which 
anglers  are  apt  to  do,  the  cruelties  and  tortures  inflicted  on  worms 
and  insects,  that  tends  to  produce  a  gentleness  of  spirit,  and  a  pure 
serenity  of  mind.  As  the  English  are  methodical  even  in  their  rec 
reations,  and  are  the  most  scientific  of  sportsmen,  it  has  been 
reduced  among  them  to  perfect  rule  and  system.  Indeed,  it  is  an 
amusement  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  mild  and  highly-cultivated 
scenery -of -.England,  ..where  pvery  roughness  has  been  softened 
away  from  the  landscape.  It  is  delightful  to  saunter  along  those 
limpid  streams,  which  wander,  like  veins  of  silver,  through  the 
bosom  of  this  beautiful  country  ;  leading  one  through  a  diversity 
of  small  home  scenery  ;  sometimes  winding  through  ornamejitejd 
grounds.;  sometimes  brimming  along  through  rich  pasturage, 
where  the  fresh  green  is  mingled  with  sweet-smelling  flowers  ;  some 
times  venturing  in  sight  of  villages  and  hamlets,  and  then  running 


36o  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

capriciously  away  into  shady  retirements.  The  sweetness  and 
serenity  of  nature,  and  the  quiet  watchfulness  of  the  sport,  gradu 
ally  bring  on  pleasant  fits  of  musing  ;  which  are  now  and  then 
agreeably  interrupted  by  the  song  of  a  bird,  the  distant  whistle  of  a 
peasant,  or,  perhaps,  the  vagary  of  some  fish,  leaping  out  of  the  still 
water,  and  skimming  transiently  about  its  glassy  surface.  "When 
I  would  beget  content,"  says  Izaak  Walton,  "and  increase  confi 
dence  in  the  power  and  wisdom  and  providence  of  Almighty  God, 
I  will  walk  the  meadows  by  some  gliding  stream,  and  there 
contemplate  the  lilies  that  take  no  care,  and  those  very  many  other 
little  living  creatures  that  are  not  only  created,  but  fed  (man 
knows  not  how)  by  the  goodness  of  the  God  of  nature,  and,  there 
fore,  trust  in  him." 

I  cannot  forbear  to  give  another  quotation  from  one  of  those 
ancient  champions  of  angling,  which  breathes  the  same  innocent 
and  happy  spirit : 

Let  me  live  harmlessly,  and  near  the  brink 

Of  Trent  or  Avon  have  a  dwelling-place, 
Where  I  may  see  my  quill,  or  cork,  down  sink, 

With  eager  bite  of  pike,  or  bleak,  or  dace; 
And  on  the  world  and  my  Creator  think : 

Whilst  some  men  strive  ill-gotten  goods  t*  embrace; 
And  others  spend  their  time  in  base  excess 

Of  wine,  or  worse,  in  war,  or  wantonness. 

Let  them  that  will,  these  pastimes  still  pursue, 
And  on  such  pleasing  fancies  feed  their  fill; 

So  I  the  fields  and  meadows  green  may  view. 
And  daily  by  fresh  rivers  walk  at  will, 

Among  the  daisies  and  the  violets  blue, 
Red  hyacinth  and  yellow  daffodil.* 

On  parting  with  the  old  angler  I  inquired  after  his  place  of 
abode,  and  happening  to  be  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  village  a 
few  evenings  afterwards,  I  had  the  curiosity  to  seek  him  out.  I 
found  him  living  in  a  small  cottage,  containing  only  one  room,  but 
a  perfect  curiosity  in  its  method  and  arrangement.  It  was  on  the 
skirts  of  the  village,  on  a  green  bank,  a  little  back  from  the  road, 
with  a  small  garden  in  front,  stocked  with  kitchen  herbs,  and 
adorned  with  a  few  flowers.  The  whole  front  of  the  cottage  was 
overrun  with  a  honeysuckle.  On  the  top  was  a  ship  for  a  weather 
cock.  The  interior  was  fitted  up  in  a  truly  nautical  style,  his  ideas 
of  comfort  and  convenience  having  been  acquired  en  tl.e  berth- 
deck  of  a  man-of-wsr.  A  hammock  was  slung  from  the  ceiling, 
*  .1.  Davors. 


THE  ANGLER.  261 

which,  in  the  daytime,  was  lashed  up  so  as  to  take  but  little  room. 
From  the  centre  of  the  chamber  hung  a  model  of  a  ship  of  his  own 
workmanship.  Two  or  three  chairs,  a  table,  and  a  large  sea-chest, 
formed  the  principal  movables.  About  the  wall  were  stuck  up 
naval  ballads,  such  as  Admiral  Hosier's  Ghost,  All  in  the  Downs, 
and  Tom  Bowline,  intermingled  with  pictures  of  sea-fights,  among 
which  the  battle  of  Camperdown  held  a  distinguished  place.  The 
mantel-piece  was  decorated  with  sea-shells;  over  which  hung  a 
quadrant,  flanked  by  two  wood-cuts  of  most  bitter-looking  naval 
commanders.  His  implements  for  angling  were  carefully  disposed 
on  nails  and  hooks  about  the  room.  On  a  shelf  was  arranged  his 
library,  containing  a  work  on  angling,  much  worn,  a  Bible  covered 
with  canvas,  an  odd  volume  or  two  of  voyages,  a  nautical  almanac, 
and  a  book  of  songs. 

His^Jamily  consisted  of  a  large  black  cat  with  one  eye,  and  a 
parrot  which  he  had  caught  and  tamed  and  educated  himself  in 
the  course  of  one  of  his  voyages;  and  which  uttered  a  variety  of 
sea  phrases  with  the  hoarse,  brattling  tone  of  a  veteran  boatswain. 
The  establishment  reminded  me  of  that  of  the  renowned  Robinson 
Crusoe;  it  was  kept  in  neat  order,  everything  being  "stowed  away" 
with  the  regularity  of  a  ship  of  war;  and  he  informed  me  that  he 
"  scoured  the  deck  every  morning,  and  swept  it  between  meals." 

I  found  him  seated  on  a  bench  before  the  door,  smoking  his  pipe 
in  the  soft,  evening  sunshine.  His  cat  was  purring  soberly  on  the 
threshold,  and  his  parrot  describing  some  strange  evolutions  in  an 
iron  ring  that  swung  in  the  centre  of  his  cage.  He  had  been 
angling  all  day,  and  gave  me  a  history  of  his  sport  with  as  much 
minuteness  as  a  general  would  talk  over  a  campaign;  being  par 
ticularly  animated  in  relating  the  manner  in  which  he  had  taken  a 
large  trout,  which  had  completely  tasked  all  his  skill  and  wariness, 
and  which  he  had  sent  as  a  trophy  to  mine  hostess  of  the  inn. 

How  comforting  it  is  to  see  a  cheerful  and  contented  old  age; 
and  to  behold  a  poor  fellow,  like  this,  after  being  tempest-tost 
through  life,  safely  moored  in  a  snug  and  quiet  harbor  in  the  even 
ing  of  his  days !  His  happiness,  however,  sprung  from  within  him 
self,  and  was  independent  of  external  circumstances;  for  he  had 
that  inexhaustible  good-nature,  which  is  the  most  precious  gift  of 
Heaven;  spreading  itself  like  oil  over  the  troubled  sea  of  thought, 
and  keeping  the  mind  smooth  and  equable  in  the  roughest  weather. 

On  inquiring  further  about  him,  I  learned  that  he  was  a  universal 
favorite  in  the  village,  and  the^oracle  of  the  tap-room;  where  he 
delighted  the  rustic  with  his  songs,  and,  like  Sinbad,  astonished 
them  with  his  stories  of  strange  Jan.ds,  and  ship-wrecks,  and  sea- 


262  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

fights.  He  was  much  noticed,  too,  by  gentlemen  sportsmen  of  the 
neighborhood;  had  taught  several  of  them  the  art  of  angling;  and 
was  a  privileged  visitor  to  their  kitchens.  The  whole  tenor  of  his 
life  was  quiet  and  inoffensive,  being  principally  passed  about  the 
neighboring  streams,  when  the  weather  and  season  were  favorable; 
and  at  other  times  he  employed  himself  at  home,  preparing  his 
fishing  tackle  for  the  next  campaign,  or  manufacturing  rods,  nets 
and  flies,  for  his  patrons  and  pupils  among  the  gentry. 

He  was  a  regular  attendant  at  church  on  Sundays,  though  he 
generally  fell  asleep  during  the  sermon.  He  had  made  it  his  par 
ticular  request  that  when  he  died  he  should  be  buried  in  a  green 
spot,  which  he  could  see  from  his  seat  in  church,  and  which  he  had 
marked  out  ever  since  he  was  a  boy,  and  had  thought  of  when  far 
from  home  on  the  raging  sea,  in  danger  of  being  food  for  the  fishes 
— it  was  the  spot  where  his  father  and  mother  had  been  buried. 

I  have  done,  for  I  fear  that  my  reader  is  growing  weary  ;  but  I 
could  not  refrain  from  drawing  the  picture  of  this  worthy  "brother 
of  the  angle  ;  "  who  has  made  me  more  than  ever  in  love  with  the 
theory,  though  I  fear  I  shall  never  be  adroit  in  the  practice  of  his 
art:  and  I  will  conclude  this  rambling  sketch  in  the  words  of 
nonest  Izaak  Walton,  by  craving  the  blessing  of  St.  Peter's  master 
upon  my  reader,  "  and  upon  all  that  are  true  lovers  of  virtue  ;  and 
dare  trust  in  his  providence  ;  and  be  quiet ;  and  go  a  angling." 


THE  LEGEND  OP  SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 

FOUND  AMONG    THE  PAPERS   OF    THE    LATE    DIEDRICH     KNICKER* 

BOCKER. 

A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy  head  it  was, 

Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  e^ 

And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
For  ever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky. 

CASTLE  OF  INDOLENCE. 

IN  the  bosom  of  one  of  those  spacious  coves  which  indent  the 
eastern  shore  of  the  Hudson,  at  that  broad  expansion  of  the 
river  denominated  by  the  ancient  Dutch  navigators  the  Tappan 
Zee,  and  where  they  always  prudently  shortened  sail,  and  implored 
the  protection  of  St.  Nicholas  when  they  crossed,  there  lies  a  small 
market-town  or  rural  port,  which  by  some  is  called  Greensburgh, 
but  which  is  more  generally  and  properly  known  by  the  name  of 
Tarry  Town.     This  name  was  given,  we  are  told,  in  former  days, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLO  IV.  263 

by  the  good  housewives  of  the  adjacent  country,  from  the  inveterate 
propensity  of  their  husbands  to  linger  about  the  village  tavern  on 
market  days.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  do  not  vouch  for  the  fact,  but 
merely  advert  to  it,  for  the  sake  of  being  precise  and  authentic. 
Not  far  from  this  village,  perhaps  about  two  miles,  there  is  a  little 
valleyToFrather  lap  of  land,  among  high  hills,  which  is  one  of  the 
quietest  places  in  the  whole  world.  A  small  brook  glides  through 
it,  with  just  murmur  enough  to  lull  one  to  repose ;  and  the  occa 
sional  whistle  of  a  quail,  or  tapping  of  a  woodpecker,  is  almost  the 
only  sound  that  ever  breaks  in  upon  the  uniform  tranquillity. 

I  recollect  that,  when  a  stripling,  my  first  exploit  in  squirrel- 
shooting  was  in  a  grove  of  tall  walnut-trees  that  shades  one  side  of 
the  valley.  I  had  wandered  into  it  at  noon  time,  when  all  nature 
is  peculiarly  quiet,  and  was  startled  by  the  roar  of  my  own  gun,  as 
it  broke  the  Sabbath  stillness  around,  and  was  prolonged  and 
reverberated  by  the  angry  echoes.  If  ever  I  should  wish  for  a 
retreat,  whither  I  might  steal  from  the  world  and  its  distractions, 
and  dream  quietly  away  the  remnant  of  a  troubled  life,  I  know  of 
none  more  promising  than  this  little  valley. 

From  the  listless  repose  of  the  place,  and  the  peculiar  character 
of  its  inhabitants,  who  are  descendants  from  the  original  Dutch 
settlers,  this  sequestered  glen  has  long  been  known  by  the  name  of 
SLEEPY  HOLLOW,  and  its  rustic  lads  are  called  the  Sleepy  Hollow 
Boys  throughout  all  the  neighboring  country.  A  drowsy,  dreamy 
influence  seems  to  hang  over  the  land,  and  to  pervade  the  very 
atmosphere.  Some  say  that  the  place  was  bewitched  by  a  high 
German  doctor  during  the  early  days  of  the  settlement ;  others, 
that  an  old  Indian  chief,  the  prophet  or  wizard  of  his  tribe,  held  his 
powwows  there  before  the  country  was  discovered  by  Master  Hen- 
drick  Hudson.  Certain  it  is,  the  place  still  continues  under  the 
sway  of  some  witching  power,  that  holds  a  spell  over  the  minds  of 
the  good  people,  causing  them  to  walk  in  a  continual  reverie. 
They  are  given  to  all  kinds  of  marvellous  beliefs;  are  subject 
to  trances  and  visions  ;  and  frequently  see  strange  sights,  and  hear 
music  and  voices  in  the  air.  The  whole  neighborhood  abounds 
with  local  tales,  haunted  spots,  and  twilight  superstitions  ;  stars 
shoot  and  meteors  glare  oftener  across  the  valley  than  in  any  other 
part  of  the  country,  and  the  nightmare,  with  her  whole  nine  fold, 
seems  to  make  it  the  favorite  scene  of  her  gambols. 

The  dominant  spirit,  however,  that  haunts  this  enchanted  region, 
and  seems  to  be  commander-in-chief  of  all  the  powers  of  the  air,  is 
the  apparition  of  a  figure  on  horseback  without  a  head.  It  is  said 
by  some  to  be  the  ghost  of  a  Hessian  trooper,  whose  head  had  been 


264  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

carried  away  by  a  cannon-ball,  in  some  nameless  battle  during  the 

revolutionary  war;  and  who  is  ever  and  anon  seen  by  the  country 

folk,  hurrying  along  in  the  gloom  of  night,  as  if  on  the  wings  of  the 

wind.     His  haunts  are  not  confined  to  the  valley,  but  extend  at 

times  to  the  adjacent  roads,  and  especially  to  the  vicinity  of  a 

church  at  no  great  distance.     Indeed,  certain  of  the  most  authentic 

historians  of  those  parts,  who  have  been  careful  in  collecting  and 

I  collating  the  floating  facts  concerning  this  spectre,  allege  that  the 

.  body  of  the  trooper,  having  been  buried  in  the  church-yard,  the 

'  ghost  rides  forth  to  the  scene  of  battle  in  nightly  quest  of  his  head  ; 

and  that  the  rushing  speed  with  which  he  sometimes  passes  along 

the  Hollow,  like  a  midnight  blast,  is  owing  to  his  being  belated, 

and  in  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  the  church-yard  before  daybreak. 

Such  is  the  general  purport  of  this  legendary  superstition,  which 
has  furnished  materials  for  many  a  wild  story  in  that  region  of 
shadows ;  and  the  spectre  is  known,  at  all  the  country  firesides,  by 
the  name  of  the  Headless  Horseman  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  visionary  propensity  I  have  mentioned 
is  not  confined  to  the  native  inhabitants  of  the  valley,  but  is  un- 
consciously_jmbibed  by  every  one  who  resides  there  for  a  time. 
However  wide  awake  they  may  have  been  before  they  entered  that 
sleepy  region,  they  are  sure,  in  a  little  time,  to  inhale  the  witching 
influence  of  the  air,  and  begin  to  grow  imaginative — to  dream 
dreams,  and  see  apparitions. 

I  mention  this  peaceful  spot  with  all  possible  laud  ;  for  it  is  in  such 
little  retired  Dutch  valleys,  found  here  and  there  embosomed  in  the 
great  State  of  New- York,  that  population,  manners,  and  customs, 
remainjfixed ;  while  the  great  torrent  of  migration  and  improve 
ment,  which  is  making  such  incessant  changes  in  other  parts  of 
this  restless  country,  sweeps  by  them  unobserved.  They  are  like 
those  little  nooks  of  still  water  which  border  a  rapid  stream ;  where 
we  may  see  the  straw  and  bubble  riding  quietly  at  anchor,  or  slowly 
revolving  in  their  mimic  harbor,  undisturbed  by  the  passing  cur 
rent.  Though  many  years  have  elapsed  since  I  trod  the  drowsy 
shades  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  yet  I  question  whether  I  should  not  still 
find  the  same  trees  and  the  same  families  vegetating  in  its  sheltered 
bosom. 

In  this  by-place  of  nature,  there  abode,  in  a  remote  period  of 
American  history,  that  is  to  say,  some  thirty  years  since,  a  worthy 
wight  of  the  name  of  Ichabod  Crane;  who  sojourned,  or,  as  he  ex 
pressed  it "  tarried,"  in  Sleepy  Hollow,  for  the  purpose  of  instruct 
ing  the  children  of  the  vicinity.  He  was  a  native  of  Connecticut; 
a  State  which  supplies  the  Union  with  pioneeTsTfor  the  mind  as  well 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLO  W.  26$ 

as  for  the  forest,  and  sends  forth  yearly  its  legions  of  frontier 
woodsmen  and  country  schoolmasters.  The  cognomen  of  Crane 
was  not  inapplicable  to  his  person.  He  was  tall,  but  exceedingly 
lank,  with  narrow  shoulders,  long  arms  and  legs,  hands  that  dan 
gled  a  mile  out  of  his  sleeves,  feet  that  might  have  served  for  shov 
els,  and  his  whole  frame  most  loosely  hung  together.  His  head 
was  small  and  flat  at  top,  with  huge  ears,  large,  green,  glassy  eyes, 
and  a  long  snipe,  nose,  so  that  it  looked  like  a  weather-cock,  perched 
upon  his  spindle  neck,  to  tell  which  way  the  wind  blew.  To  see 
him  striding  along  the  profile  of  a  hill  on  a  windy  day,  with  his  clothes 
bagging  and  fluttering  about  him,  one  might  have  mistaken  him  for 
the  genius  of  famine  descending  upon  the  earth,  or  some  scarecrow 
eloped  from  a  cornfield. 

His  school-house  was  a  low  building  of  one  large  room,  rudely 
constructed  of  logs  ;  the  windows  partly  glazed,  and  partly  patched 
with  leaves  of  old  copy-books.  It  was  most  ingeniously  secured 
at  vacant  hours,  by  a  withe  twisted  in  the  handle  of  the  door,  and 
stakes  set  against  the  window  shutters ;  so  that,  though  a  thief 
might  get  in  with  perfect  ease,  he  would  find  some  embarrassment 
in  getting  out ;  an  idea  most  probably  borrowed  by  the  architect, 
Yost  Van  Houten,  from  the  mystery  of  an  eel-pot.  The  school- 
house  stood  in  a  rather  lonely  but  pleasant  situation,  just  at  the  foot 
of  a  woody  hill,  with  a  brook'  running  close  by,  and  a  formidable 
birch  tree  growing  at  one  end  of  it.  From  hence  the  low  murmur 
of  his  pupils'  voices,  conning  over  their  lessons,  might  be  heard  in 
a  drowsy  summer's  day,  like  the  hum  of  a  bee-hive  ;  interrupted 
now  and  then  by  the  authoritative  voice  of  the  master,  in  the  tone 
«tf  menace  or  command  ;  or,  peradventure,  by  the  appalling  sound 
of  tire  birch,  as  he  urged  some  tardy  loiterer  along  the  flowery  path 
of  knowledge.  Truth  to  say,  he  was  a  conscientious  man,  and  ever 
foqre  in  mind  the  golden  maxim,  "  Spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the 
child."  Ichabod  Crane's  scholars  certainly  were  not  spoiled. 

I  would  not  have  it  imagined,  however,  that  he  was  one  of  thosef 
cruel  potentates  of  the  school  who  joy  in  the  smart  of  their  subjects  ; 
on  the  contrary,  he  administered  justice  with  discrimination  rather 
than  severity;    taking  the  burthen  off  the  backs  of  the  weak,  and 
te</ing  it  on  those  of  the  strong.     Your  mere  puny  stripling,  that  v 
winced  at  the  least  flourish  of  the  rod,  was  passed  by  with  indul 
gence  ;  but  the  claims  of  justice  were  satisfied  by  inflicting  a  double 
portion  on  some  little,  tough,  wrong-headed,  broad-skirted  Dutch  * 
urchin,  who  sulked  and  swelled  and  grew  dogged  and  sullen  be 
neath  the  birch.     All  this  he  called  "  doing  his  duty  by  their  par 
ents;"  and  he  never  inflicted  a  chastisement  without  following  it 


266  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

by  the  assurance,  so  consolatory  to  the  smarting  urchin,  that  "he 
would  remember  it,  and  thank  him  for  it  the  longest  day  he  had  to 
iive." 

When  the  school  hours  were  over  he  was  even  the  companion  and 
playmate  of  the  larger  boys ;  and  on  holiday  afternoons  would  con 
voy  some  of  the  smaller  ones  home,  who  happened  to  have  pretty 
sisters,  or  good  housewives  for  mothers,  noted  for  the  comfort  of  the 
cupboard.  Indeed,  it  behooved  him  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  his 
pupils.  The  revenue  arising  from  his  school  was  small,  and  would 
|  have  been  scarcely  sufficient  to  furnish  him  with  his  daily  bread, 
for  he  was  a  huge  feeder,  and  though  lank,  had  the  dilating  powers 
of  an  anaconda;  but  to  help  out  his  maintenance,  he  was,  accord 
ing  to  country  custom  in  those  parts,  boarded  and  lodged  at 
the  houses  of  the  farmers  whose  children  he  instructed.  With 
these  he  lived  successively  a  week  at  a  time ;  thus  going  the 
rounds  of  the  neighborhood,  withja.ll  his  worldly  effects  tied  up  in  a 
cotton  handkerchief. 

That  all  this  might  not  be  too  onerous  on  the  purses  of  his  rustic 
patrons,  who  are  apt  to  consider  the  costs  of  schooling  a  grievous 
burden,  and  schoolmasters  as  mere  drones,  he  had  various  ways  of 
rendering  himself  both  useful  and  agreeable.  He  assisted  the  far 
mers  occasionally  in  the  lighter  labors  of  their  farms ;  helped  to 
make  hay;  mended  the  fences;  took  the  horses  to  water;  drove  the 
cows  from  pasture  ;  and  cut  wood  for  the  winter  fire.  He  laid  aside, 
too,  all  i-y  dominant-  rUp-nitv  and  absolute  sway  with  which  hg" lorded 
it  inTiislittle  empire,  the  school,  and  b'e^ame/vondertully  gentle  and 
ingratiating.  He  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  mothersTb'y  petffflg 
jme  children,  particularly  the  youngest ;  and  like  the  lion  bold, 
Iwhich.  whilom  so  magnanimously  the  lamb  did  hold,  he  would  sit 
[with  a  child  on  one  knee,  and  rock  a  cradle  with  his  foot  for  whole 
'frours  together. 

In  addition  to  his  other  vocations,  he  was  the  singing-master  of 
the  neighborhood,  and  picked  up  many  bright  shillings  by  instruct 
ing  the  young  folks  in  psalmody.  It  was  a  matter  of  no  little  vanity 
to  him,  on  Sundays,  to  take  his  station  in  front  of  the  church  gal 
lery,  with  a  band  of  chosen  singers  ;  where,  in  his  own  mind,  he  com 
pletely  carried  away  the  palm  from  the  parson.  Certain  it  is,  his  voice 
resounded  far  above  all  the  rest  of  the  congregation  ;  and  there  are 
peculiar  quavers  still  to  be  heard  in  that  church,  and  which  may 
even  be  heard  half  a  mile  off,  quite  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  mill- 
pond,  on  a  still  Sunday  morning,  which  are  said  to  be  legitimately 
from  the  nose  of  Ichabod  Crane.  Thus,  by  divers  little 
s  in  that  ingenious  way  which  is  commonly  denominated 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  267 

'by  hook  and  by  crook,"  the  worthy  pedagogue  got  on  tolerably 
enough,  and  was  thought,  by  all  who  understood  nothing  of  the 
labor  of  headwork,  to  have  a  wonderfully  easy  life  of  it. 

The  schoolmaster  is  generally  a  man  of  some  importance  in  the    ; 
female  circle  of  a  rural  neighborhood  ;  being  considered  a  kind  of 
idle,  gentlemanlike  personage,  of  vastly  superior  taste  and  accom     / 
plishments  to  the  rough  country  swains,  and,  indeed,  inferior  in    ; 
learning  only  to  the  parson.     His  appearance,  therefore,  is  apt  to  j 
occasion  some  little  stir  at  the  tea-table  of  a  farmhouse,  and  the 
addition  of  a  supernumerary  dish  of  cakes  or  sweetmeats,  or,  perad- 
venture,  the  parade  of  a  silver  tea-pot.     Our  man  of  letters,  there 
fore,  was  peculiarly  happy  in  the  smiles  of  all  the  country  damsels. 
How  he  would  figure  among  them  in  the  church-yard,  between  ser 
vices  on  Sundays !  gathering  grapes  for  them  from  the  wild  vines 
that  overrun  the  surrounding  trees;  reciting  for  their  amusement 
all  the  epitaphs  on  the  tombstones  ;  or  sauntering  with  a  whole  bevy 
of  them  along  the  banks  of  the  adjacent  mill-pond  ;  while  the  more 
bashful  country  bumpkins  hung  sheepishly  back,  envying  his  su 
perior  elegance  and  address. 

From  his  half  itinerant  life,  also,  he  was  a  kind  of  travelling  ga 
zette,  carrying  the  whole  budget  of  loca^gossip  from  house  to  house  ; 
so  that  his  appearance  was  always  greeted  with  satisfaction.  He 
was,  moreover,  esteemed  by  the  women  as  a  man  of  great  erudition, 
for  he  had  read  several  books  quite  through,  and  was  a  perfect 
master  of  Cotton  Mather's  history  of  New  England  Witchcraft,  in 
which,  by  the  way,  he  most  firmly  and  potently  believed. 

He  was,  in  fact,  an  odd  mixture  of  small  shrewdnessandTsimple  ere-  v 
dulity.  His  appetite  for  the  marvelous,  and  his  powers  of  digesting 
it,  were  equally  extraordinary  ;  and  both  had  been  increased  by 
his  residence  in  this  spell-bound  region.  No  tale  was  too  gross  or 
monstrous  for  his  capacious  swallow.  It  was  often  his  delight,  after 
his  school  was  dismissed  in  the  afternoon,  to  stretch  himself  on  the 
rich  bed  of  clover  bordering  the  little  brook  that  whimpered  by  his 
school-house,  and  there  con  over  old  Mather's  direful  tales,  until  \ 
the  gathering  dusk  of  the  evening  made  the  printed  page  a  mere 
mist  before  his  eyes.  Then,  as  he  wended  his  way,  by  swamp  and 
stream  and  awful  woodland,  to  the  farmhouse  where  he  happened 
to  be  quartered,  every  sound  of  nature,  at  that  witching  hour,  flut 
tered  his  excited  imagination :  the  moan  of  the  whip-poor-will* 
from  the  hill-side  ;  the  boding  cry  of  the  tree-toad,  that  harbinger 
of  storm  ;  the  dreary  hooting  of  the  screech-owl,  or  the  sudden 


*  The  whin-poor-will  is  a  bird  which  is  only  heard  at  night, 
name  from  its  note,  which  is  thought  to  resemble  those  words. 


It  receives  its 


268  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

rustling  in  the  thicket  of  birds  frightened  from  their  roost.     The  fire 

flies,  too,  which  sparkled  most   vividly  in  the  darkest  places,  now 

and  then  startled  him,  as  one  of  uncommon  brightness  would  stream 

across  his  path  ;  and  if,  by  chance,  a  huge  blockhead  of  a  beetle 

came   winging  his   blundering  flight  against  him,  the  poor  varlet 

was  ready  to  give  up  the  ghost,  with  the  idea  that  he  was  struck 

with  a  witch's  token.     His  only  resource  on  such  occasions,  either 

\    to   drown   thought,    or    drive    away  evil  spirits,  was  to  sing  psalm 

tunes  ;  —  and  the  good  people  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  as  they  sat  by  their 

doors  of  an  evening,  were  often  filled  with  awe,  at  hearing  his  nasal 

\  melody,  "in  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out,"  floating  from  the 

i  distant  hill,  or  along  the  dusky  road. 

Another  of  his  sources  of  fearful  pleasure  was  to  pass  long  winte:. 
evenings  with  the  old  Dutch  wives,  as  they  sat  spinning  by  the  fire 
with  a  row  of  apples  roasting  and  spluttering  along  the  hearth,  ana 
listen  to  their  marvellous  tales  of  ghosts  and  goblins,  and  haunted 
fields,  and  haunted  brooks,  and  haunted  bridges,  and  haunted 
houses,  and  particularly  of  the  headless  horseman,  or  galloping 
Hessian  of  the  Hollow,  as  they  sometimes  called  him.  He  would 
delight  them  equally  by  his  anecdotes  of  witchcraft,  and  of  the 
direful  omens  and  portentous  sights  and  sounds  in  the  air,  which 
prevailed  in  the  earlier  times  of  Connecticut  ;  and  would  frighten 
them  wofully  with  speculations  upon  comets  and  shooting  stars; 
and  with  the  alarming  fact  that  the  world  did  absolutely  turr 
round,  and  that  they  were  half  the  time  topsy-turvy  ! 

But  if  there  was  a  pleasure  in  all  this,  while  anugly  cuddling  in 
the  chimney  corner  of  a  chamber  that  was  all  of  a  ruddy  glow  from 
the  crackling  wood  fire,  and  where,  of  course,  no  spectre  dared  to 
show  his  face,  it  was  dearly  purchased  by  the  terrors  of  his  subse 
quent  walk  homewards.  What  fearful  shapes  and  shadows  beset 
his  path  amidst  the  dim  and  ghastly  glare  of  a  snowy  night  !  With 
what  wistful  look  did  he  eye  every  trembling  ray  of  light  streaming 
across  the  waste  fields  from  some  distant  window  !  How  often 
was  he  appalled  by  some  shrub  covered  with  snow,  which,  like  a 
sheeted  spectre,  beset  his  very  path  !  How  often..did  he  shrink 
with  .curdling,  awe  at  the  sou4id-ol.liis.Qw 


.beneath  his  feet;  ,and  dread   to   look  over  his  shoulder,  lest  he" 
should  behold  some  uncouth  being  tramping  close  behind  him  !  — 
and  how  often  was  he  thrown  into  complete  dismay  by  some  rush 
ing  blast,  howling  among  the  trees,  in  the  idea  that  it  was  the  Gal 
loping  Hessian  on  one  of  his  nightly  scourings  ! 

All  these,  however,  were  mere  terrors  of  the  night,  phantoms  of 
the  mind  that  walk  in  darkness  ;    and  though  he  had  seen  many 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  269 

spectres  in  his  time,  and  been  more  than  once  beset  by  Satan  in 
divers  shapes  in  his  lonely  perambulations,  yet  daylight  put  an 
end  to  all  these  evils  ;  and  he  would  have  passed  a  pleasant  life  of 
it,  in  despite  of  the  devil  and  all  his  works,  if  his  path  had  not 
been  crossed  by  a  being  that  causes  more  perplexity  to  mortal  man 
than  ghosts,  goblins,  and  the  whole  race  of  witches  put  together, 
and  that  was — a  woman. 

Among  the  musical  disciples  who  assembled,  one  evening  in 
each  week,  to  receive  his  instructions  in  psalmody,  was  Katrina 
Van  Tassel,  the  daughter  and  only  child  of  a  substantial  Dutch 
farmer.  She  was  a  blooming  lass  of  fresh  eighteen  ;  plump  as  a 
partridge ;  ripe  and  melting  and  rosy  cheeked  as  one  of  her 
father's  peaches,  and  universally  famed,  not  merely  for  her  beauty, 
but  her  vast  expectations.  She  was  withal  a  little  of  a  coquette,  as 
might  be  perceived  even  in  her  dress,  which  was  a  mixture  of 
ancient  and  modern  fashions,  as  most  suited  to  set  off  her  charms. 
She  wore  the  ornaments  of  pure  yellow  gold  which  her  great-great- 
grandmother  had  brought  over  from  Saardam;  the  tempting 
stomacher  of  the  olden  time ;  and  withal  a  provokingly  short  petti 
coat,  to  display  the  prettiest  foot  and  ankle  in  the  country  round. 

Ichabod  Crane  had  a  soft  and  foolish  heart  towards  the  sex;  and 
it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  so  tempting  a  morsel  soon  found 
favor  in  his  eyes ;  more  especially  after  he  had  visited  her  in  her 
paternal  mansion.  Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  was  a  perfect  picture  of 
a  thriving,  contented,  liberal-hearted  farmer.  He  seldom,  it  is 
true,  sent  either  his  eyes  or  his  thoughts  beyond  the  boundaries  of  / 
his  own  farm ;  but  within  those  everything  was  snug,  happy,  and 
well-conditioned.  He  was  satisfied  with  his  wealth,  but  not  proud 
of  it ;  and  piqued  himself  upon  the  hearty  abundance,  rather  than 
the  style  in  which  he  lived.  His  stronghold  was  situated  on  the 
banks  of  the  Hudson,  in  one  of  those  green,  sheltered,  fertile  nooks, 
in  which  the  Dutch  farmers  are  so  fond  of  nestling.  A  great  elm- 
tree  spread  its  broad  branches  over  it  ;  at  the  foot  of  which  bub 
bled  up  a  spring  of  the  softest  and  sweetest  water,  in  a  little  well, 
formed  of  a  barrel ;  and  then  stole  sparkling  away  through  the 
grass,  to  a  neighboring  brook,  that  bubbled  along  among  alders 
and  dwarf  willows.  Hard  by  the  farm-house  was  a  vast  barn  that 
might  have  served  for  a  church  ;  every  window  and  crevice  of 
which  seemed  bursting  forth  with  the  treasures  of  the  farm ;  the 
flail  was  busily  resounding  within  it  from  morning  to  night ;  swal 
lows  and  martins  skimmed  twittering  about  the  eaves ;  and  rows 
of  pigeons,  some  with  one  eye  turned  up,  as  if  watching  the 
weather,  some  with  their  heads  under  their  wings,  or  buried  in  their 


2;o  THE  SKE  TCH-B  O  OK. 

bosoms,  and  others  swelling,  and  cooing,  and  bowing  about 
dames,  were  enjoying  the  sunshine  on  the  roof.  Sleek,  unwieldiy 
porkers  were  grunting  in  the  repose  and  abundance  of  their  pens; 
whence  sallied  forth,  now  and  then,  troops  of  sucking  pigs,  as  if  to 
snuff  the  air.  A  stately  squadron  of  snowy  geese  were  riding  in  an 
adjoining  pond,  convoying  whole  fleets  of  ducks ;  regiments  of 
turkeys  were  gobbling  through  the  farmyard,  and  guinea  fowls  fret 
ting  about  it,  like  ill-tempered  housewives,  with  their  peevish,  dis 
contented  cry.  Before  the  barn  door  strutted  the  gallant  cock, 
that  pattern  of  a  husband,  a  warrior  and  a  fine  gentleman,  clapping 
his  burnished  wings,  and  crowing  in  the  pride  and  gladness  of  his 
heart — sometimes  tearing  up  the  earth  with  his  feet,  and  then  gen 
erously  calling  his  ever-hungry  family  of  wives  and  children  to 
enjoy  the  rich  morsel  which  he  had  discovered. 

The  pedagogue's  mouth  watered  as  he  looked  upon  this  sumptu- 

'  ous  promise  of  luxurious  winter  fare.  In  his  devouring  mind's 
eye,  he  pictured  to  himself  every  roasting-pig  running  about  with  a 
pudding  in  his  belly,  and  an  apple  in  his  mouth ;  the  pigeons  were 
snugly  put  to  bed  in  a  comfortable  pie,  and  tucked  in  with  a  cov 
erlet  of  crust ;  the  geese  were  swimming  in  their  own  gravy  ;  and 
the  ducks  pairing  cosily  in  dishes,  like  snug  married  couples,  with 
a  decent  competency  of  onion  sauce.  In  the  porkers  he  saw 
carved  out  the  future  sleek  side  of  bacon,  and  juicy,  relishing  ham ; 
not  a  turkey  but  he  beheld  daintily  trussed  up,  with  its  gizzard 
under  its  wing,  and,  perad venture,  a  necklace  of  savory  sausages  ; 
and  even  bright  chanticleer  himself  lay  sprawling  on  his  back,  in  a 

/•   side-dish,  with  uplifted  claws,  as  if  craving  that  quartei  which  his 

[    chivalrous  spirit  disdained  to  ask  while  living. 

As  the  enraptured  Ichabod  fancied  all  this,  and  as  he  rolled  his 
great  green  eyes  over  the  fat  meadow-lands,  the  rich  fields  of 
wheat,  of  rye,  of  buckwheat,  and  Indian  corn,  and  the  orchards 
burthened  with  ruddy  fruit,  which  surrounded  the  warm  tenement 
of  Van  Tassel,  his  heart  yearned  after  the  damsel  who  was  to 
inherit  these  domains,  and  his  imagination  expanded  with  the  idea, 
how  they  might  be  readily  turned  into  cash,  and  the  money 
invested  in  immense  tracts  of  wild  land,  and  shingle  palaces  in  the 
wilderness.  Nay,  his  busy  fancy  already  realized  his  hopes,  and 
presented  to  him  the  blooming  Katrina,  with  a  whole  family  of 
children,  mounted  on  the  top  of  a  wagon  loaded  with  household 
trumpery,  with  pots  and  kettles  dangling  beneath  ;  and  he  beheld 
himself  bestriding  a  pacing  mare,  with  a  colt  at  her  heels,  setting 
out  for  Kentucky,  Tennessee,  or  the  Lord  knows  where. 

When  he  entered  the  house  the  conquest  of  his  heart  was  com- 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  271 

pkte.  It  was  one  of  those  spacious  farmhouses,  with  high-ridged, 
but  lowly-sloping  roofs,  built  in  the  style  handed  down  from  the 
first  Dutch  settlers ;  the  low,  projecting  eaves  forming  a  piazza 
along  the  front,  capable  of  being  closed  up  in  bad  weather.  Under 
this  were  hung  flails,  harness,  various  utensils  of  husbandry,  and 
nets  for  fishing  in  the  neighboring  river.  Benches  were  built  along 
the  sides  for  summer  use  ;  and  a  great  spinning-wheel  at  one  end, 
and  a  churn  at  the  other,  showed  the  various  uses  to  which  this 
important  porch  might  be  devoted.  From  this  piazza  the  wonder 
ing  Ichabod  entered  the  hall,  which  formed  the  centre  of  the  man 
sion,  and  the  place  of  usual  residence.  Here,  rows  of  resplendent 
pewter,  ranged  on  a  long  dresser,  dazzled  his  eyesT  ~TrT<5ne~corner 
stood  a  huge  bag  of  wool  ready  to  be  spun ;  in  another  a  quantity 
of  linsey-woolsey  just  from  the  loom  ;  ears  of  Indian  corn,  and 
strings  of  dried  apples  and  peaches,  hung  in  gay  festoons  along  the 
walls,  mingled  with  the  gaud  of  red  peppers ;  and  a  door  left  ajar 
gave  him  a  peep  into  the  best  parlor,  where  the  claw-footed  chairs, 
and  dark,  mahogany  tables,  shone  like  mirrors ;  and  irons,  with 
their  accompanying  shovel  and  tongs,  glistened  from  their  covert 
of  asparagus  tops;  mock-oranges  and  conch-shells  decorated  the 
mantle-piece  ;  strings  of  various  colored  birds'  eggs  were  suspended 
above  it :  a  great  ostrich  egg  was  hung  from  the  centre  of  the 
room,  and  a  corner  cupboard,  knowingly  left  open,  displayed  i 
immense  treasures  of  old  silver  and  well-mended  china. 

From  the  moment  Ichabod  laid  his  eyes  upon  these  regions  of 
delight,  the  peace  of  his  mind  was  at  an  end,  and  his  only  study 
was  how  to  gain  the  affections  of  the  peerless  daughter  of  Van 
Tassel.  In  this  enterprise,  however,  he  had  more  real  difficulties 
than  generally  fell  to  the  lot  of  a  knight-errant  of  yore,  who  seldom 
had  anything  but  giants,  enchanters,  fiery  dragons,  and  such  like 
easily-conquered  adversaries,  to  contend  with ;  and  had  to  make 
his  way  merely  through  gates  of  iron  and  brass,  and  walls  of  ada 
mant,  to  the  castle  keep,  where  the  lady  of  his  heart  was  confined; 
all  which  he  achieved  as  easily  as  a  man  would  carve  his  way  to 
the  centre  of  a  Christmas  pie  ;  and  thjen  the  lady  gave  him  her 
hand  as  a  matter  of  course.  Ichabod,  on  the  contrary,  had  to  win 
his  way  to  the  heart  of  a  country  coquette,  beset  with  a  labyrinth 
of  whims  and  caprices,  which  were  forever  presenting  new  diffi 
culties  and  impediments ;  and  he  had  to  encounter  a  host  of  fear 
ful  adversaries  of  real  flesh  and  blood,  the  numerous  rustic  admir 
ers,  who  beset  every  portal  to  her  heart ;  keeping  a  watchful  and 
angry  eye  upon  each  other,  but  ready  to  fly  out  in  the  common 
cause  against  any  new  competitor. 


r;2  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Among  these  the  most  formidable  was  a  burly,  roaring,  royster- 
ing  blade,  of  the  name  of  Abraham,  or,  according  to  the  Dutch 
abbreviation,  Brom  Van  Brunt,  the  hero  of  the  country  round, 
which  rang  with  his  feats  of  strength  and  hardihood.  He  was 
broad-shouldered  and  double-jointed,  with  short,  curly  black  hair, 
and  a  bluff,  but  not  unpleasant  countenance,  having  a  mingled  air 
of  fun  and  arrogance.  From  his  Herculean  frame  and  great 
powers  of  limb,  he  had  received  the  nickname  of  BROM  BONES,  by 
which  he  was  universally  known.  He  was  famed  for  great  knowl 
edge  and  skill  in  horsemanship,  being  as  dexterous  on  horseback 
as  a  Tartar.  He  was  foremost  at  all  races  and  cock-fights ;  and, 
with  the  ascendency  which  bodily  strength  acquires  in  rustic  life,  was 
the  umpire  in  all  disputes,  setting  his  hat  on  one  side,  and  giving 
his  decisions  with  an  air  and  tone  admitting  of  no  gainsay  or 
appeal.  He  was  always  ready  for  either  a  fight  or  a  frolic ;  but 
had  more  mischief  than  ill-will  in  his  composition ;  and,  with  all 
his  overbearing  roughness,  there  was  a  strong  dash  of  waggish 
good  humor  at  bottom.  He  had  three  or  four  boon  companions, 
who  regarded  him  as  their  model,  and  at  the  head  of  whom  he 
scoured  the  country,  attending  every  scene  of  feud  or  merriment 
for  miles  around.  In  cold  weather  he  was  distinguished  by  a  fur 
cap,  surmounted  with  a  flaunting  fox's  tail;  and  when  the  folks  at 
a  country  gathering  descried  this  well-known  crest  at  a  distance, 
whisking  about  among  a  squad  of  hard  riders,  they  always  stood 
by  for  a  squall.  Sometimes  his  crew  would  be  heard  dashing 
along  past  the  farmhouses  at  midnight,  with  whoop  and  halloo, 
like  a  troop  of  Don  Cossacks ;  and  the  old  dames,  startled  out  of 
their  sleep,  would  listen  for  a  moment  till  the  hurry-scurry  had 
clattered  by,  and  then  exclaim,  "Ay,  there  goes  Brom  Bones  and 
his  gang!"  The  neighbors  looked  upon  him  with  a  mixture,  of 
awe,  admiration,  and  good  will ;  and  when  any  madcap  prank,  or 
rustic  brawl,  occurred  in  the  vicinity,  always  shook  their  heads, 
and  warranted  Brom  Bones  was  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

This  rantipole  hero  had  for  some  time  singled  out  the  blooming 
Katrina  for  the  object  of  his  uncouth  gallantries,  and  though  his 
amorous  toyings  were  something  like  the  gentle  caresses  and 
endearments  of  a  bear,  yet  it  was  whispered  that  she  did  not  alto 
gether  discourage  his  hopes.  Certain  it  is,  his  advances  were  sig 
nals  for  rival  candidates  to  retire,  who  felt  no  inclination  to  cross  a 
lion  in  his  amours  ;  insomuch  that  when  his  horse  was  seen  tied  to 
Van  Tassel's  paling,  on  a  Sunday  night,  a  sure  sign  that  his  master 
was  courting,  or,  as  it  is  termed,  "sparking,"  within,  all  other 
suitors  passed  by  in  despair,  and  carried  the  war  into  other  quar 
ters. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLO  W.  273 

Such  was  the  formidable  rival  with  whom  Ichabod  Crane  had  to 
contend,  and,  considering  all  things,  a  stouter  man  than  he  would 
have  shrunk  from  the  competition,  and  a  wiser  man  would  have 
despaired.  He  had,  however,  a  happy  mixture  of  pliability  and 
perseverance  in  his  nature  ;  he  was  in  form  and  spirit  like  a  supple 
jack — yielding,  but  tough  ;  though  he  bent,  he  never  broke ;  and 
though  he  bowed  beneath  the  slightest  pressure,  yet,  the  moment  it 
was  away — jerk !  he  was  as  erect,  and  carried  his  head  as  high  as 
ever. 

To  have  taken  the  field  openly  against  his  rival  would  have  been 
madness;  for  he  was  not  a  man  to  be  thwarted  in  his  amours,  any 
more  than  that  stormy  lover,  Achilles.  Ichabod,  therefore,  made 
his  advances  in  a  quiet  and  gently -insinuating  manner.  Under 
cover  of  his  character  of  singing-master,  he  made  frequent  visits 
at  the  farmhouse  ;  not  that  he  had  anything  to  apprehend  from  the 
meddlesome  interference  of  parents,  which  is  so  often  a  stumbling- 
block  in  the  path  of  lovers.  Bait  Van  Tassel  was  an  easy,  indul 
gent  soul;  he  loved  his  daughter  better  even  than  his  pipe,  and, 
like  a  reasonable  man  and  an  excellent  father,  let  her  have  her  way 
in  everything.  His  notable  little  wife,  too,  had  enough  to  do  to 
attend  to  her  housekeeping  and  manage  her  poultry  ;  for,  as  she 
sagely  observed,  ducks  and  geese  are  foolish  things,  and  must  be 
looked  after,  but  girls  can  take  care  of  themselves.  Thus,  while 
the  busy  dame  bustled  about  the  house,  or  plied  her  spinning-wheel 
at  one  end  of  the  piazza,  honest  Bait  would  sit  smoking  his  evening 
pipe  at  the  other,  watching  the  achievements  of  a  little  wooden 
warrior,  who,  armed  with  a  sword  in  each  hand,  was  most  valiantly 
fighting  the  wind  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  barn.  In  the  mean  time, 
Ichabod  would  carry  on  his  suit  with  the  daughter  by  the  side  of 
the  spring  under  the  great  elm,  or  sauntering  along  in  the  twilight, 
that  hour  so  favorable  to  the  lover's  eloquence. 

I  profess  not  to  know  how  women's  hearts  are  wooed  and  won. 
To  me  they  have  always  been  matters  of  riddle  and  admiration. 
Some  seem  to  have  but  one  vulnerable  point,  or  door  of  access ; 
while  others  have  a  thousand  avenues,  and  may  be  captured  in  a 
thousand  different  ways.  It  is  a  great  triumph  of  skill  to  gain  the 
former,  but  a  still  greater  proof  of  generalship  to  maintain  posses 
sion  of  the  latter,  for  the  man  must  battle  for  his  fortress  at  every 
door  and  window.  He  who  wins  a  thousand  common  hearts  is, 
therefore,  entitled  to  some  renown ;  but  he  who  keeps  undisputed 
sway  over  the  heart  of  a  coquette,  is,  indeed,  a  hero.  Certain  it  is, 
this  was  not  the  case  with  the  redoubtable  Brom  Bones ;  and  from 
the  moment  Ichabod  Crane  made  his  advances,  the  interests  of  the 


274  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

former  evidently  declined ;  his  horse  was  no  longer  seen  tied  at  the 
palings  on  Sunday  nights,  and  a  deadly  feud  gradually  arose 
between  him  and  the  preceptor  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

prom,  who  had  a  degree  of  rough  chivalry  in  his  nature,  would 
fain  have  carried  matters  to  open  warfare,  and  have  settled  their 
pretensions  to  the  lady  according  to  the  mode  of  those  most  con 
cise  and  simple  reasoners,  the  knights-errant  of  yore — by  single 
combat;  but  Ichabod  was  too  conscious  olE  the  superior  might  of 
his  adversary  to  enter  the  lists  against  him'-:  he  had  overheard  a 
boast  of  Bones,  that  he  would  "double  the  schoolmaster  up  and 
lay  him  on  a  shelf  of  his  own  school-house  ;"  and  he  was  too  wary 
to  give  him  an  opportunity.  There  was  something  extremely  pro 
voking  in  this  obstinately  pacific  system;  it  left  Brom  no  alternative 
but  to  draw  upon  the  funds  of  rustic  waggery  in  his  disposition, 
and  to  play  off  boorish  practical  jokes  upon  his  rival.  Ichabod 
became  the  object  of  whimsical  persecution  to  Bones  and  his  gang 
of  rough  riders.  They  harried  his  hitherto  peaceful  domains ; 
smoked  out  his  singing  school  by  stopping  up  the  chimney ;  broke 
into  the  school-house  at  night,  in  spite  of  its  formidable  fastenings 
of  withe  and  window  stakes,  and  turned  everything  topsy-turvy  : 
so  that  the  poor  schoolmaster  began  to  think  all  the  witches  in  the 
country  held  their  meetings  there.  But  what  was  still  more  annoy 
ing,  Brom  took  all  opportunities  of  turning  him  into  ridicule  in 
presence  of  his  mistress,  and  had  a  scoundrel  dog  whom  he  taught 
to  whine  in  the  most  ludicrous  manner,  and  introduced  as  a  riva[ 
of  Ichabod's  to  instruct  her  in  psalmody. 

In  this  way  matters  went  on  for  some  time,  without  producing 
any  material  effect  on  the  relative  situation  of  the  contending 
powers.  On  a  fine,  autumnal  afternoon,  Ichabod,  in  his  pensive 
mood,  sat  enthroned  on  the  lofty  stool  whence  he  usually  watched 
all  the  concerns  of  his  little  literary  realm.  In  his  hand  he  swayed 
a  ferule,  that  sceptre  of  despotic  power  ;  the  birch  of  justice  reposed 
on  three  nails  behind  the  throne,  a  constant  terror  to  evil  doers ; 
while  on  the  desk  before  him  might  be  seen  sundry  contraband 
articles  and  prohibited  weapons,  detected  upon  the  persons  of  idle 
urchins  ;  such  as  half-munched  apples,  popguns,  whirligigs,  fly- 
cages,  and  whole  legions  of  rampant  little  paper  game-cocks.  Ap 
parently  there  had  been  some  appalling  act  of  justice  recently 
inflicted,  for  his  scholars  were  all  busily  intent  upon  their  books,  or 
slyly  whispering  behind  them  with  one  eye  kept  upon  the  master ; 
and  a  kind  of  buzzing  stillness  reigned  throughout  the  school-room. 
It  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  a  negro,  in  tow- 
cloth  jacket  and  trousers,  a  round-crowned  fragment  of  a  hat,  lik§ 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  275 

the  cap  of  Mercury,  and  mounted  on  the  back  of  a  ragged,  wild, 
half-broken  colt,  which  he  managed  with  a  rope  by  way  of  halter. 
He  came  clattering  up  to  the  school  door  with  an  invitation  to  Ichabod 
to  attend  a  merry -making  or"  quilting  frolic,"  to  be  held  that  evening 
at  Mynheer  Van  Tassel's ;  and  having  delivered  his  message  with 
that  air  of  importance,  and  effort  at  fine  language,  which  a  negro  is 
apt  to  display  on  petty  embassies  of  the  kind,  he  dashed  over  the 
brook,  and  was  seen  scampering  away  up  the  hollow,  full  of  the 
importance  and  hurry  of  his  mission. 

All  was  now  bustle  and  hubbub  in  the  late  quiet  school-room. 
The  scholars  were  hurried  through  their  lessons,  without  stopping 
at  trifles  ;  those  who  were  nimble  skipped  over  half  with  impunity, 
and  those  who  were  tardy,  had  a  smart  application  now  and  then 
in  the  rear,  to  quicken  their  speed,  or  help  them  over  a  tall  word. 
Books  were  flung  aside  without  being  put  away  on  the  shelves,  ink 
stands  were  overturned,  benches  thrown  down,  and  the  whole  school 
was  turned  loose  an  hour  before  the  usual  time,  bursting  forth  like 
a  legion  of  young  imps,  yelping  and  racketing  about  the  green,  in 
joy  at  their  early  emancipation. 

The  gallant  Ichabod  now  spent  at  least  an  extra  half  hour  at  his 
toilet,  brushing  and  furbishing  up  his  best,  and,  indeed,  only  suit  of 
rusty  black,  and  arranging  his  looks  by  a  bit  of  broken  looking-glass 
that  hung  up  in  the  school-house.  That  he  might  make  his  appear 
ance  before  his  mistress  in  the  true  style  of  a  cavalier,  he_  borrowed 
a  horse  from  the  farmer  with  whom  he  domiciliated,  a  choleric  old 
Dutchman  of  the  name  of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and,  thus  gallantly 
mounted,  issued  forth,  like  a  knight-errant  in  quest  of  adventures. 
But  it  is  meet  I  should,  in  the  true  spirit  of  romantic  history, 
give  some  account  of  the  looks  and  equipments  of  my  hero  and  his 
steed.  The  animal  he  bestrode  was  a  broken-down  plough-horse, 
that  had  outlived  everything  but  his  viciousness.  He  was  gaunt 
and  shagged,  with  a  ewe  neck  and  a  head  like  a  hammer  ;  his 
rusty  mane  and  tail  were  tangled  and  knotted  with  burrs ;  one  eye 
had  lost  its  pupil,  and  was  glaring  and  spectral  ;  but  the  other  had 
the  gleam  of  a  genuine  devil  in  it.  Still  he  must  have  had  fire 
and  mettle  in  his  day,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  name  he  bore  of 
Gunpowder.  He  had,  in  fact,  been  a  favorite  steed  of  his  master's, 
the  choleric  Van  Ripper,  who  was  a  furious  rider,  and  had  infused, 
very  probably,  some  of  his  own  spirit  into  the  animal ;  for,  old  and 
broken-down  as  he  looked,  there  was  more  of  the  lurking  devil  in 
him  than  in  any  young  filly  in  the  country. 

Ichabod  was  a  suitable  figure  for  such  a  steed.  He  rode  with 
short  stirrups,  which  brought  his  knees  nearly  up  to  the  pommel  of 


276  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  saddle  ;  his  sharp  elbows  stuck  out  like  grasshoppers  ;  he  car 
ried  his  whip  perpendicularly  in  his  hand,  like  a  sceptre,  and,  as 
his  horse  jogged  on,  the  motion  of  his  arms  was  not  unlike  the  flap 
ping  of  a  pair  of  wings.  A  small  wool  hat  rested  on  the  top  of  his 
nose,  for  so  his  scanty  strip  of  forehead  might  be  called ;  and  the 
skirts  of  his  black  coat  fluttered  out  almost  to  the  horse's  tail. 
Such  was  the  appearance  of  Ichabod  and  his  steed,  as  they  sham 
bled  out  of  the  gate  of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  it  was  altogether 
such  an  apparition  as  is  seldom  to  be  met  with  in  broad  daylight. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  fine,  autumnal  day,  the  sky  was  clear 
and  serene,  and  nature  wore  that  rich  and  golden  livery  which  we 
always  associate  with  the  idea  of  abundance.  The  forests  had  put 
on  their  sober  brown  and  yellow,  while  some  trees  of  the  tenderer 
kind  had  been  nipped  by  the  frosts  into  brilliant  dyes  of  orange, 
purple,  and  scarlet.  Streaming  files  of  wild  ducks  began  to  make 
their  appearance  high  in  the  air ;  the  bark  of  the  squirrel  might  be 
heard  from  the  groves  of  beech  and  hickory  nuts,  and  the  pensive 
whistle  of  the  quail  at  intervals  from  the  neighboring  stubble-field. 

The  small  birds  were  taking  their  farewell  banquets.  In  the 
fulness  of  their  revelry,  they  fluttered,  chirping  and  frolicking,  from 
bush  to  bush,  and  tree  to  tree,  capricious  from  the  very  profusion 
and  variety  around  them.  There  was  the  honest  cock-robin,  the 
favorite  game  of  stripling  sportsmen,  with  its  loud,  querulous  note  ; 
and  the  twittering  blackbirds  flying  in  sable  clouds ;  and  the  golden- 
winged  wood-pecker,  with  his  crimson  crest,  his  broad,  black  gorget, 
and  splendid  plumage  ;  and  the  cedar  bird,  with  its  red-tipt  wings 
and  yellow-tipt  tail,  and  its  little  monteiro  cap  of  feathers  ;  and  the 
blue  jay,  that  noisy  coxcomb,  in  his  gay,  light-blue  coat  and  white 
under-clothes ,  screaming  and  chattering,  nodding  and  bobbii'j 
and  bowing,  and  pretending  to  be  on  good  terms  with  every  sorg- 
ster  of  the  grove. 

As  Ichabod  jogged  slowly  on  his  way,  his  eye,  ever  open  to 
every  symptom  of  culinary  abundance,  ranged  with  delight  over 
the  treasures  of  jolly  autumn.  On  all  sides  he  beheld  vast  store 
of  apples ;  some  hanging  in  oppressive  opulence  on  the  trees  ;  some 
gathered  into  baskets  and  barrels  for  the  market ;  others  heaped 
up  in  rich  piles  for  the  cider-press.  Farther  on  he  beheld  great 
fields  of  Indian  corn,  with  its  golden  ears  peeping  from  their  leafy 
coverts,  and  holding  out  the  promise  of  cakes  and  hasty  pudding  ; 
and  the  yellow  pumpkins  lying  beneath  them,  turning  up  their  fair, 
round  bellies  to  the  sun,  and  giving  ample  prospects  of  the  most 
luxurious  of  pies;  and  anon  he  passed  the  fragrant  buckwheat 
fields,  breathing  the  odor  of  the  bee-hive,  and  as  he  beheld  them, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  27? 

Soft  anticipations  stole  over  his  mind  of  dainty  slapjacks,  well  but 
tered,  and  garnished  with  honey  or  treacle,  by  the  delicate  little 
dimpled  hand  of  Katrina  Van  Tassel. 

Thus  feeding  his  mind  with  many  sweet  thoughts  and  "  sugared 
suppositions,"  he  journeyed  along  the  sides  of  a  range  of  hills 
which  look  out  upon  some  of  the  goodliest  scenes  of  the  mighty 
Hudson.  The  sun  gradually  wheeled  his  broad  disk  down  into  the 
west.  The  wide  bosom  of  the  Tappan  Zee  lay  motionless  and 
glassy,  excepting  that  here  and  there  a  gentle  undulation  waved 
and  prolonged  the  blue  shadow  of  the  distant  mountain.  A  few 
amber  clouds  floated  in  the  sky,  without  a  breath  of  air  to  move 
them.  The  horizon  was  of  a  fine,  golden  tint,  changing  gradually 
into  a  pure  apple  green,  and  from  that  into  the  deep  blue  of  the 
mid-heaven.  A  slanting  ray  lingered  on  the  woody  crests  of  the 
precipices  that  overhung  some  parts  of  the  river,  giving  greater 
depth  to  the  dark  gray  and  purple  of  their  rocky  sides.  A  sloop 
was  loitering  in  the  distance,  dropping  slowly  down  with  the  tide, 
her  sail  hanging  uselessly  against  the  mast ;  and  as  the  reflection 
of  the  sky  gleamed  along  the  still  water,  it  seemed  as  if  the  vessel 
was  suspended  in  the  air. 

It  was  toward  evening  that  Ichabod  arrived  at  the  castle  of  the 
Herr  Van  Tassel,  which  he  found  thronged  with  the  pride  and 
flower  of  the  adjacent  country.  Old  farmers,  a  spare,  leathern-faced 
race,  in  homespun  coats  and  breeches,  blue  stockings,  huge  shoes, 
and  magnificent  pewter  buckles.  Their  brisk,  withered  little  dames, 
in  close  crimped  caps,  long-waisted  shortgowns,  homespun  petti 
coats,  with  scissors  and  pincushions,  and  gay,  calico  pockets  hang 
ing  on  the  outside.  Buxom  lasses,  almost  as  antiquated  as  their 
mothers,  excepting  where  a  straw  hat,  a  fine  ribbon,  or,  perhaps,  a 
white  frock,  gave  symptoms  of  city  innovation.  The  sons,  in  short, 
square-skirted  coats  with  rows  of  stupendous  brass  buttons,  and 
their  hair  generally  queued  in  the  fashion  of  the  times,  especially 
if  they  could  procure  an  eel  skin  for  the  purpose,  it  being  esteemed, 
throughout  the  country,  as  a  potent  nourisher  and  strengthener  of 
the  hair. 

Brom  Bones,  however,  was  the  hero  of  the  scene,  having  come 
to  the  gathering  on  his  favorite  steed  Daredevil,  a  creature,  like 
himself,  full  of  mettle  and  mischief,  and  which  no  one  but  himself 
could  manage.  He  was,  in  fact,  noted  for  preferring  vicious  ] 
animals,  given  to  all  kinds  of  tricks,  which  kept  the  rider  in  con 
stant  risk  of  his  neck,  for  he  held  a  tractable,  well-broken  horse  as 
unworthy  of  a  lad  of  spirit. 

Fain  would  I  pause  to  dwell  upon  the  world  of  charms  that 


278  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

burst  upon  the  enraptured  gaze  of  my  hero,  as  he  enceten  fhs 
parlor  of  Van  Tassel's  mansion.  Not  those  of  the  bevy  of  buxom 
lasses,  with  their  luxurious  display  of  red  and  white ;  but  tbe 
ample  charms  of  a  genuine  Dutch  country  tea-table,  in  the  sumpt 
uous  time  of  autumn.  Such  heaped-up  platters  of  cakes  of  various 
and  almost  indescribable  kinds,  known  only  to  experienced  Dutch 
housewives!  There  was  the  doughty  doughnut,  the  tenderer  oly 
koek,  and  the  crisp  and  crumbling  cruller  ;  sweet  cakes  and  short 
cakes,  ginger  cakes  and  honey  cakes,  and  the  whole  family  of 
cakes.  And  then  there  were  apple  pies  and  peach  pies  and  pump 
kin  pies ;  besides  slices  of  ham  and  smoked  beef ;  and,  moreover, 
delectable  dishes  of  preserved  plums,  and  peaches,  and  pears,  and 
quinces  ;  not  to  mention  broiled  shad  and  roasted  chickens ; 
together  with  bowls  of  milk  and  cream,  all  mingled  higgledy- 
piggledy,  pretty  much  as  I  have  enumerated  them,  with  the 
motherly  tea-pot  sending  up  its  clouds  of  vapor  from  the  midst— 
Heaven  bless  the  mark !  I  want  breath  and  time  to  discuss  this 
banquet  as  it  deserves,  and  am  too  eager  to  get  on  with  my  story. 
Happily,  Ichabod  Crane  was  not  in  so  great  a  hurry  as  his  historian, 
but  did  ample  justice  to  every  dainty. 

He  was  a  kind  and  thankful  creature,  whose  heart  dilated  in  pro 
portion  as  his  skin  was  filled  with  good  cheer,  and  whose  spirit? 
rose  with  eating  as  some  men's  do  with  drink.  He  could  not  help. 
too,  rolling  his  large  eyes  round  him  as  he  ate,  and  chuckling  with 
the  possibility  that  he  might  one  day  be  lord  of  all  this  scene 
of  almost  unimaginable  luxury  and  splendor.  Then,  he  thought, 
how  soon  he'd  turn  his  back  upon  the  old  school- house  ;  snap  his 
fingers  in  the  face  of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  every  other  niggardly 
patron,  and  kick  any  itinerant  pedagogue  out  of  doors  that  should 
dare  to  call  him  comrade  ! 

Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  moved  about  among  his  guests  with  a 
face  dilated  with  content  and  good  humor,  round  and  jolly  as  the 
harvest  moon.  His  hospitable  attentions  were  brief,  but  expressive, 
being  confined  to  a  shake  of  the  hand,  a  slap  on  the  shoulder,  a 
loud  laugh,  and  a  pressing  invitation  to  "fall  to,  and  help  them 
selves." 

And  now  the  sound  of  the  music  from  the  common  room,  or  hall, 
summoned  to  the  dance.  The  musician  was  an  old,  gray -headed 
negro,  who  had  been  the  itinerant  orchestra  of  the  neighborhood 
for  more  than  half  a  century.  His  instrument  was  as  old  and 
battered  as  himself.  The  greater  part  of  the  time  he  scraped  on 
two  or  three  strings,  accompanying  every  movement  of  the  bow 
with  a  motion  of  the  head  ;  bowing  almost  to  the  ground,  and 
•tamping  with  his  foot  whenever  a  fresh  couple  were  to  start. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW,  ?7J 

Ichabod  prided  himself  upon  his  dancing  as  much  as  upon  hii 
yocal  powers.  Not  a  limb,  not  a  fibre  about  him  was  idle ;  and  to 
have  seen  his  loosely  hung  frame  in  full  motion,  and  clattering 
about  the  room,  you  would  have  thought  Saint  Vitus  himself,  that 
blessed  patron  of  the  dance,  was  figuring  before  you  in  person. 
He  was  the  admiration  of  all  the  negroes  ;  who,  having  gathered, 
of  all  ages  and  sizes,  from  the  farm  and  the  neighborhood,  stood 
forming  a  pyramid  of  shining  black  faces  at  every  door  and  window, 
gazing  with  delight  at  the  scene,  rolling  their  white  eye-balls,  and 
showing  grinning  rows  of  ivory  from  ear  to  ear.  How  could  the 
flogger  of  urchins  be  otherwise  than  animated  and  joyous?  the  lady 
of  his  heart  was  his  partner  in  the  dance,  and  smiling  graciously  in 
reply  to  all  his  amorous  oglings  ;  while  Brom  Bones,  sorely  smitten 
with  love  and  jealousy,  sat  brooding  by  himself  in  one  corner. 

When  the  dance  was  at  an  end,  Ichabod  was  attracted  to  a  knot 
of  the  sager  folks,  who,  with  old  Van  Tassel,  sat  smoking  at  one 
end  of  the  piazza,  gossiping  over  former  times,  and  drawing  one 
long  stories  about  the  war. 

This  neighborhood,  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking,  was  out 
of  those  highly-favored  places  which  abound  with  chronicle  and 
great  men.  The  British  and  American  line  had  run  near  it  during 
the  war  ;  it  had,  therefore,  been  the  scene  of  marauding,  and 
infested  with  refugees,  cow-boys,  and  all  kinds  of  border  chivalry. 
Just  sufficient  time  had  elapsed  to  enable  each  story-teller  to  dress 
up  his  tale  with  a  little  becoming  fiction,  and,  in  the  indistinctness 
of  his  recollection,  to  make  himself  the  hero  of  every  exploit. 

There  was  the  story  of  Doffue  Martling,  a  large,  blue-bearded 
Dutchman,  who  had  nearly  taken  a  British  frigate  with  an  old  iron 
nine-pounder  from  a  mud  breastwork,  only  that  his  gun  burst  at 
the  sixth  discharge.  And  there  was  an  old  gentleman  who  shall 
be  nameless,  being  too  rich  a  mynheer  to  be  lightly  mentioned, 
who,  in  the  battle  of  Whiteplains,  being  an  excellent  master  of 
defence,  parried  a  musket  ball  with  a  small  sword,  insomuch  that 
he  absolutely  felt  it  whiz  round  the  blade,  and  glance  off  at  the 
hilt :  in  proof  of  which,  he  was  ready  at  any  time  to  show  the  sword, 
with  the  hilt  a  little  bent.  There  were  several  more  that  had  been 
equally  great  in  the  field,  not  one  of  whom  but  was  persuaded  that 
he  had  a  considerable  hand  in  bringing  the  war  to  a  happy  termi 
nation. 

But  all  these  were  nothing  to  the  tales  of  ghosts  and  appari 
tions  that  succeeded.  The  neighborhood  is  rich  in  legendary 
treasures  of  the  kind.  Local  tales  and  superstitions  thrive  best 
in  these  sheltered,  long-settled  retreats;  but  are  trampled  under 


2fc>  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

foot  by  the  shifting  throng  that  forms  the  population  of  most  of  Out 
country  places.  Besides,  there  is  no  encouragement  for  ghosts  in 
most  of  our  villages,  for  they  have  scarcely  had  time  to  finish  their 
first  nap,  and  turn  themselves  in  their  graves,  before  their  surviv 
ing  friends  have  travelled  away  from  the  neighborhood  ;  so  that 
•when  they  turn  out  at  night  to  walk  their  rounds,  they  have  no 
acquaintance  left  to  call  upon.  This  is,  perhaps,  the  reason  why  we 
so  seldom  hear  of  ghosts  except  in  our  long-established  Dutch 
communities. 

The  immediate  cause,  however,  of  the  prevalence  of  super 
natural  stories  in  these  parts,  was,  doubtless,  owing  to  the  vicinity  of 
Sleepy  Hollow.  There  was  a  contagion  in  the  very  air  that  blew 
from  that  haunted  region ;  it  breathed  forth  an  atmosphere  of 
dreams  and  fancies  infecting  all  the  land.  Several  of  the  Sleepy 
Hollow  people  were  present  at  Van  Tassel's,  and,  as  usual,  were 
doling  out  their  wild  and  wonderful  legends.  Many  dismal  tales 
•were  told  about  funeral  trains,  and  mourning  cries  and  wailings 
heard  and  seen  about  the  great  tree  where  the  unfortunate  Major 
Andre  was  taken,  and  which  stood  in  the  neighborhood.  Some 
mention  was  made  also  of  the  woman  in  white  that  haunted  the 
dark  glen  at  Raven  Rock,  and  was  often  heard  to  shriek  on  winter 
nights  before  a  storm,  having  perished  there  in  the  snow.  The 
chief  part  of  the  stories,  however,  turned  upon  the  favorite  spectre 
of  Sleepy  Hollow,  the  headless  horseman,  who  had  been  heard 
several  times  of  late,  patrolling  the  country  ;  and,  it  was  said, 
tethered  his  horse  nightly  among  the  graves  in  the  church 
yard. 

The  sequestered  situation  of  this  church  seems  always  to  have 
made  it  a  favorite  haunt  of  troubled  spirits.  It  stands  on  a  knoll, 
surrounded  by  locust-trees  and  lofty  elms,  from  among  which  its 
decent,  whitewashed  walls  shine  modestly  forth,  like  Christian 
purity  beaming  through  the  shades  of  retirement.  A  gentle  slope 
descends  from  it  to  a  silver  sheet  of  water,  bordered  by  high  trees, 
between  which  peeps  may  be  caught  at  the  blue  hills  of  the  Hud 
son.  To  look  upon  its  grass-grown  yard,  where  the  sunbeams 
seem  to  sleep  so  quietly,  one  would  think  that  there,  at  least,  the 
dead  might  rest  in  peace.  On  one  side  of  the  church  extends  a 
wide,  woody  dell,  along  which  raves  a  large  brook  among  broken 
rocks  and  trunks  of  fallen  trees.  Over  a  deep  black  part  of  the  stream, 
not  far  from  the  church,  was  formerly  thrown  a  wooden  bridge  ;  the 
road  that  led  to  it,  and  the  bridge  itself,  were  thickly  shaded  by 
overhanging  trees,  which  cast  a  gloom  about  it,  even  in  the  day 
time  ;  but  occasioned  a  fearful  darkness  at  night.  This  was  one  of 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  281 

the  favorite  haunts  of  the  headless  horseman  ;  and  the  place  where 
he  was  most  frequently  encountered.  The  tale  was  told  of  old 
Brouwer,  a  most  heretical  disbeliever  in  ghosts,  how  he  met  the 
horseman  returning  from  his  foray  into  Sleepy  Hollow,  and  was 
obliged  to  get  up  behind  him  ;  how  they  galloped  over  bush  and 
brake,  over  hill  and  swamp,  until  they  reached  the  bridge  ;  when 
the  horseman  suddenly  turned  into  a  skeleton,  threw  old  Brouwer 
into  the  brook,  and  sprang  away  over  the  tree-tops  with  a  clap  of 
thunder. 

This  story  was  immediately  matched  by  a  thrice  marvellous 
adventure  of  Brom  Bones,  who  made  light  of  the  galloping 
Hessian  as  an  arrant  jockey.  He  affirmed  that,  on  returning  one 
night  from  the  neighboring  village  of  Sing  Sing,  he  had  been 
overtaken  by  this  midnight  trooper ;  that  he  had  offered  to  race 
with  him  for  a  bowl  of  punch,  and  should  have  won  it,  too,  for 
Daredevil  beat  the  goblin  horse  all  hollow,  but  just  as  they  came 
to  the  church-bridge,  the  Hessian  bolted,  and  vanished  in  a  flash 
of  fire. 

All  these  tales,  told  in  that  drowsy  undertone  with  which  men 
talk  in  the  dark,  the  countenances  of  the  listeners  only  now  and 
then  receiving  a  casual  gleam  from  the  glare  of  a  pipe,  sank  deep 
in  the  mind  of  Ichabod.  He  repaid  them  in  kind  with  large 
extracts  from  his  invaluable  author  Cotton  Mather,  and  added 
many  marvellous  events  that  had  taken  place  in  his  native  State 
of  Connecticut,  and  fearful  sights  which  he  had  seen  in  his  nightly 
walks  about  Sleepy  Hollow. 

The  revel  now  gradually  broke  up.  The  old  farmers  gathered 
together  their  families  in  their  wagons,  and  were  heard  for  some 
time  rattling  along  the  hollow  roads,  and  over  the  distant  hills. 
Some  of  the  damsels  mounted  on  pillions  behind  their  favorite 
swains,  and  their  light-hearted  laughter,  mingling  with  the  clatter 
of  hoofs,  echoed  along  the  silent  woodlands,  sounding  fainter  and 
fainter  until  they  gradually  died  away — and  the  late  scene  of  noise 
and  frolic  was  all  silent  and  deserted.  Ichabod  only  lingered 
behind,  according  to  the  custom  of  country  lovers,  to  have  a 
tete-a-tete  with  the  heiress,  fully  convinced  that  he  was  now  on  the 
high  road  to  success.  What  passed  at  this  interview  I  will  not 
pretend  to  say,  for  in  fact  I  do  not  know.  Something,  however,  I  ( 
fear  me,  must  have  gone  wrong,  for  he  certainly  sallied  forth,  after  \ 
no  very  great  interval,  with  an  air  quite  desolate  and  chop-fallen. 
— Oh  these  women !  these  women !  Could  that  girl  have  been 
playing  off  any  of  her  coquettish  tricks  ?  Was  her  encouragement 
of  the  poor  pedagogue  all  a  mere  sham  to  secure  her  conquest  of 


482  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

his  rival  ?  Heaven  only  knows,  not  I !  Let  it  suffice  to  say,  Ichabod 
stole  forth  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  been  sacking  a  hen-roost, 
rather  than  a  fair  lady's  heart.  Without  looking  to  the  right  or  left 
to  notice  the  scene  of  rural  wealth  on  which  he  had  so  often 
gloated,  he  went  straight  to  the  stable,  and  with  several  hearty 
cuffs  and  kicks,  roused  his  steed  most  uncourteously  from  the 
comfortable  quarters  in  which  he  was  soundly  sleeping,  dream 
ing  of  mountains  of  corn  and  oats,  and  w%ole  valleys  of  timothy 
and  clover. 

It  was  the  very  witching  time  of  night  that  Ichabod,  heavy- 
hearted  and  crest-fallen,  pursued  his  travel  homewards,  along  the 
sides  of  the  lofty  hills  which  rise  above  Tarry  Town,  and  which  he 
had  traversed  so  cheerily  in  the  afternoon.  The  hour  was  as 
dismal  as  himself.  Far  below  him,  the  Tappan  Zee  spread  its 
dusky  and  indistinct  waste  of  waters,  with  here  and  there  the  tall 
mast  of  a  sloop  riding  quietly  at  anchor  under  the  land.  In  the 
dead  hush  of  midnight,  he  could  even  hear  the  barking  of  the 
watch  dog  from  the  opposite  shore  of  the  Hudson ;  but  it  was  so 
vague  and  faint  as  only  to  give  an  idea  01*  his  distance  from  this 
faithful  companion  of  man.  Now  and  tnen,  too,  the  long-drawn 
crowing  of  a  cock,  accidentally  awakened,  would  sound  far,  far  off, 
from  some  farm  house  away  among  the  hills — but  it  was  like  a 
dreaming  sound  in  his  ear.  No  signs  oi  life  occurred  near  him, 
but  occasionally  the  melancholy  chirp  of  a  cricket,  or,  perhaps,  Ae 
guttural  twang  of  a  bull-frog,  from  a  neighboring  marsh,  as  if 
sleeping  uncomfortably,  and  turning  suddenly  in  his  bed. 

All  the  stories  of  ghosts  and  goblins  that  he  had  heard  in  the 
afternoon,  now  came  crowding  upon  his  recollection.  The  night 
grew  darker  and  darker;  the  stars  seemed  to  sink  deeper  in  the 
sky,  and  driving  clouds  occasionally  hid  them  from  his  sight.  He 
had  never  felt  so  lonely  and  dismal.  He  was,  moreover,  approach 
ing  the  very  place  where  many  of  the  scenes  of  the  ghost  stories 
had  been  laid.  In  the  centre  of  the  road  stood  an  enormous  tulip- 
tree,  which  towered  like  a  giant  above  all  the  other  trees  of  the 
neighborhood,  and  formed  a  kind  of  landmark.  Its  limbs  were 
gnarled  and  fantastic,  large  enough  to  form  trunks  for  ordinary 
trees,  twisting  down  almost  to  the  earth,  and  rising  again  into  the 
air.  It  was  connected  with  the  tragical  story  of  the  unfortunate 
Andre,  who  had  been  taken  prisoner  hard  by  ;  and  was  universally 
known  by  the  name  of  Major  Andre's  tree.  The  common  people 
regarded  it  with  a  mixture  of  respect  and  superstition,  partly  out  of 
sympathy  for  the  fate  of  its  ill-starred  namesake,  and  partly  from 
the  tales  of  strange  sights  and  doleful  lamentations  told  concern- 


LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  283 

As  Ichabod  approached  this  fearful  tree,  he  began  to  whistle :  he 
thought  his  whistle  was  answered — it  was  but  a  blast  sweeping 
sharply  through  the  dry  branches.  As  he  approached  a  little 
nearer,  he  thought  he  saw  something  white  hanging  in  the  midst 
of  the  tree — he  paused  and  ceased  whistling  ;  but  on  looking  more 
narrowly,  perceived  that  it  was  a  place  where  the  tree  had  been 
scathed  by  lightning,  and  the  white  wood  laid  bare.  Suddenly 
he  heard  a  groan — his  teeth  chattered  and  his  knees  smote 
against  the  saddle  :  it  was  but  the  rubbing  of  one  huge  bough  upon 
r.nother,  as  they  were  swayed  about  by  the  breeze.  He  passed 
:lie  tree  in  safety,  but  new  perils  lay  before  him. 

About  two  hundred  yards  from  the  tree  a  small  brook  crossed 
the  road,  and  ran  into  a  marshy  and  thickly-wooded  glen,  known 
by  the  name  of  Wiley's  swamp.  A  few  rough  logs,  laid  side  by 
side,  served  for  a  bridge  over  the  stream.  On  that  side  of  the  road 
where  the  brook  entered  the  w:ood,  a  group  of  oaks  and  chestnuvb, 
matted  thick  with  wild  grape-vines,  threw  a  cavernous  gloom  over 
it.  To  pass  this  bridge  was  the  severest  trial.  It  was  at  this 
identical  spot  that  the  unfortunate  Andre  was  captured,  and  under 
the  covert  of  those  chestnuts  and  vines  were  the  sturdy  yeomen 
concealed  who  surprised  him.  This  has  ever  since  been  considered 
a  haunted  stream,  and  fearful  are  the  feelings  of  the  schoolboy  who 
has  to  pass  it  alone  after  dark. 

As  he  approached  the  stream  his  heart  began  to  thump ;  he 
summoned  ip,  however,  all  his  resolution,  gave  his  horse  half  a 
score  of  kicks  in  the  ribs,  and  attempted  to  dash  briskly  across  the 
bridge ;  but  instead  of  starting  forward,  the  perverse  old  animal 
made  a  lateral  movement,  and  ran  broadside  against  the  fence. 
Ichabod,  whose  fears  increased  with  the  delay,  jerked  the  reins  on 
the  other  side,  and  kicked  lustily  with  the  contrary  foot :  it  was  all 
in  vain ;  his  st^ed  started,  it  is  true,  but  it  was  only  to  plunge  to 
the  opposite  side  of  the  road  into  a  thicket  of  brambles  and  alder 
bushes.  The  schoolmaster  now  bestowed  both  whip  and  heel  upon 
the  starveling  ribs  of  old  Gunpowder,  who  dashed  forward,  snuffl 
ing  and  snorting,  but  came  to  a  stand  just  by  the  bridge,  with  a 
suddenness  that  had  nearly  sent  his  rider  sprawling  over  his 
head.  Just  at  this  moment  a  plashy  tramp  by  the  side  of  the 
bridge  caught  the  sensitive  ear  of  Ichabod.  In  the  dark  shadow 
of  the  grove,  on  the  margin  of  the  brook,  he  beheld  something 
huge,  misshapen,  black  and  towering.  It  stirred  not,  but  seemed 
gathered  up  in  the  gloom,  like  some  gigantic  monster  ready  to 
spring  upon  the  traveller. 

The  hair  of  the  affrighted  pedagogue  rose  upon  his  head  with 


284  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

terror.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  To  turn  and  fly  was  now  too  lai«  • 
and  besides,  what  chance  was  there  of  escaping  ghost  or  goblin,  if 
such  it  was,  which  could  ride  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind?  Sum 
moning  up,  therefore,  a  show  of  courage,  he  demanded  in  stammer 
ing  accents — "Who  are  you?"  He  received  no  reply.  He 
repeated  his  demand  in  a  still  more  agitated  voice.  Still  there  was 
no  answer.  Once  more  he  cudgelled  the  sides  of  the  inflexible 
Gunpowder,  and,  shutting  his  eyes,  broke  forth  with  involuntary 
fervor  into  a  psalm  tune.  Just  then  the  shadowy  object  of  alarm 
put  itself  in  motion,  and,  with  a  scramble  and  a  bound,  stood  at 
once  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  Though  the  night  was  dark  and 
dismal,  yet  the  form  of  the  unknown  might  now  in  some  degree  be 
ascertained.  He  appeared  to  be  a  horseman  of  large  dimensions, 
and  mounted  on  a  black  horse  of  powerful  frame.  He  made  no 
offer  of  molestation  or  sociability,  but  kept  aloof  on  one  side  of  the 
road,  jogging  along  on  the  blind  side  of  old  Gunpowder,  who  had 
now  got  over  his  fright  and  waywardness. 

Ichabod,  who  had  no  relish  for  this  strange  midnight  companion, 
and  bethought  himself  of  the  adventure  of  Brom  Bones  with  the 
Galloping  Hessian,  now  quickened  his  steed,  in  hopes  of  leaving 
him  behind.  The  stranger,  however,  quickened  his  horse  to  an 
equal  pace.  Ichabod  pulled  up,  and  fell  into  a  walk,  thinking  to 
lag  behind — the  other  did  the  same.  His  heart  began  to  sink 
within  him;  he  endeavored  to  resume  his  psalm  tune,  but  his 
parched  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth,  and  he  could  not 
utter  a  stave.  There  was  something  in  the  moody  and  dogged 
silence  of  this  pertinacious  companion  that  was  mysterious  and 
appalling.  It  was  soon  fearfully  accounted  for.  On  mounting  a 
I  rising  ground,  which  brought  the  figure  of  his  fellow-traveller  in 
relief  against  the  sky,  gigantic  in  height,  and  muffled  in  a  cloak, 
Ichabod  was  horror-struck,  on  perceiving  that  he  was  headless ! — 
but  his  horror  was  still  more  increased  on  observing  that  the  head, 
which  should  have  rested  on  his  shoulders,  was  carried  before  him 
I  on  the  pommel  of  the  saddle :  his  terror  rose  to  desperation ;  he 
•  rained  a  shower  of  kicks  and  blows  upon  Gunpowder,  hoping,  by 
a  sudden  movement,  to  give  his  companion  the  slip — but  the 
spectre  started  full  jump  with  him.  Away  then  they  dashed, 
through  thick  and  thin ;  stones  flying,  and  sparks  flashing  at  every 
bound.  Ichabod' s  flimsy  garments  fluttered  in  the  air,  as  he 
stretched  his  long,  lank  body  away  over  his  horse's  head,  in  the 
eagerness  of  his  flight. 

They  had  now  reached  the  road  which  turns  off  to  Sleepy  Hol 
low  ;  but  Gunpowder,  who  seemed  possessed  with  a  demon,  instead 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  285 

of  keeping  up  it,  made  an  opposite  turn,  and  plunged  headlong 
down  hill  to  the  left.  This  road  leads  through  a  sandy  hollow, 
shaded  by  trees  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  where  it  crosses  the 
bridge  famous  in  goblin  story,  and  just  beyond  swells  the  green 
knoll  on  which  stands  the  whitewashed  church. 

As  yet  the  panic  of  the  steed  had  given  his  unskilful  rider  an 
apparent  advantage  in  the  chase  ;  but  just  as  he  had  got  half  way 
through  the  hollow,  the  girths  of  the  saddle  gave  way,  and  he  felt 
it  slipping  from  under  him.  He  seized  it  by  the  pommel,  and 
endeavored  to  hold  it  firm,  but  in  vain  ;  and  had  just  time  to  save 
himself  by  clasping  old  Gunpowder  round  the  neck,  when  the 
saddle  fell  to  the  earth,  and  he  heard  it  trampled  under  foot  by  his 
pursuer.  For  a  moment  the  terror  of  Hans  Van  Ripper's  wrath 
passed  across  his  mind — for  it  was  his  Sunday  saddle;  but  this  was 
no"  time  for  pet^y  fears ;  the  goblin  was  hard  on  his  haunches  \ 
and  (unskilful  rider  that  he  was!)  he  had  much  ado  to  maintain  his 
seat ;  sometimes  slipping  on  one  side,  sometknes  on  another,  and 
sometimes  jolted  on  the  high  ridge  of  his  horse's  back-bone,  with 
a  violence  that  he  verily  feared  wo^Id  cleave  him  asunder. 

An  opening  in  the  trees  now  cheered  him  with  the  hope  that  the 
church  bridge  was  at  hand.  The  wavering  reflection  of  a  silver 
star  in  the  bosom  of  the  brook  told  him  that  he  was  not  mistaken. 
He  saw  the  walls  of  the  church  dimly  glarii  g  under  the  trees 
beyond.  He  recollected  the  place  where  Brom  Bones'  ghostly 
competitor  had  disappeared.  "If  I  can  but  reach  that  bridge," 
thought  Ichabod,  "I  am  safe."  Just  then  he  heard  the  black 
steed  panting  and  blowing  close  behind  him  ;  he  even  fancied  that 
he  felt  his  hot  breath.  Another  convulsive  kick  in  the  ribs,  and 
old  Gunpowder  sprang  upon  the  bridge ;  he  thundered  over  the 
resounding  planks ;  he  gained  the  opposite  side  ;  and  now  Ichabod 
cast  a  look  behind  to  see  if  his  pursuer  should  vanish,  according  to 
rule,  in  a  flash  of  fire  and  brimstone.  Just  then  he  saw  the  goblin 
rising  in  his  stirrups,  and  in  the  very  act  of  hurling  his  head  at 
him.  Ichabod  endeavored  to  dodge  the  horrible  missile,  but  too 
late.  It  encountered  his  cranium  with  a  tremendous  crash — h? 
was  tumbled  headlong  into  the  dust,  and  Gunpowder,  the  black 
steed,  and  the  goblin  rider  passed  by  like  a  whirlwind. 

The  next  morning  the  old  horse  was  found  without  his  saddle, 
and  with  the  bridle  under  his  feet,  soberly  cropping  the  grass  af 
his  master's  gate.  Ichabod  did  not  make  his  appearance  at  break 
fast — dinner-hour  came,  but  no  Ichabod.  The  boys  assembled  at 
the  school-house,  and  strolled  idly  about  the  banks  of  the  brook  ; 
but  no  schoolmaster.  Hans  Van  Ripper  now  began  to  feel 


286  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

uneasiness  about  the  fate  of  poor  Ichabod,  and  his  saddle.  An 
inquiry  was  set  on  foot,  and  after  diligent  investigation  they  came 
upon  his  traces.  In  one  part  of  the  road  leading  to  the  church 
was  found  the  saddle  trampled  in  the  dirt ;  the  tracks  of  horses' 
hoofs  deeply  dented  in  the  road,  and  evidently  at  furious  speed, 
were  traced  to  the  bridge,  beyond  which,  on  the  bank  of  a  broad 
part  of  the  brook,  where  the  water  ran  deep  and  black,  was  found 
the  hat  of  the  unfortunate  Ichabod,  and  close  beside  it  a  shattered 
pumpkin. 

The  brook  was  searched,  but  the  body  of  the  schoolmaster  was 
not  to  be  discovered.  Hans  Van  Ripper,  as  executor  of  his  estate, 
examined  the  bundle  which  contained  all  his  worldly  effects.  They 
consisted  of  two  shirts  and  a  half ;  two  stocks  for  the  neck ;  a  pair 
or  two  of  worsted  stockings  ;  an  old  pair  of  corduroy  small-clothes; 
a  rusty  razor ;  a  book  of  psalm  tunes,  full  of  dogs'  ears ;  and  a 
broken  pitchpipe.  As  to  the  books  and  furniture  of  the  school- 
house,  they  belonged  to  the  community,  excepting  Cotton  Mather's 
History  of  Witchcraft,  a.  New  England  Almanac,  and  a  book  of 
dreams  and  fortune-telling ;  in  which  last  was  a  sheet  of  foolscap 
much  scribbled  and  blotted  in  several  fruitless  attempts  to  make  a 
copy  of  verses  in  honor  of  the  heiress  of  Van  Tassel.  These  magic 
books  and  the  poetic  scrawl  were  forthwith  consigned  to  the  flames 
by  Hans  Van  Ripper;  who  from  that  time  forward  determined  to 
send  his  children  no  more  to  school ;  observing,  that  he  never  knew 
any  good  come  of  this  same  reading  and  writing.  Whatever 
money  the  schoolmaster  possessed,  and  he  had  received  his 
quarter's  pay  but  a  day  or  two  before,  he  must  have  had  about  his 
person  at  the  time  of  his  disappearance. 

The  mysterious  event  caused  much  speculation  at  the  church  on 
the  following  Sunday.  Knots  of  gazers  and  gossips  were  collected 
in  the  church-yard,  at  the  bridge,  and  at  the  spot  where  the  hat  and 
pumpkin  had  been  found.  The  stories  of  Brouwer,  of  Bones,  and 
a  whole  budget  of  others,  were  called  to  mind  ;  and  when  they  had 
diligently  considered  them  all,  and  compared  them  with  the  symp 
toms  of  the  present  case,  they  shook  their  heads,  and  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  Ichabod  had  been  carried  off  by  the  galloping  Hes 
sian.  As  he  was  a  bachelor,  and  in  nobody's  debt,  nobody  troubled 
his  head  any  more  about  him.  The  school  was  removed  to  a  dif 
ferent  quarter  of  the  hollow,  and  another  pedagogue  reigned  in  his 
stead. 

It  is  true,  an  old  farmer,  who  had  been  down  to  New  York  on  a 
visit  several  years  after,  and  from  whom  this  account  of  the  ghostly 
Adventure  was  received,  brought  home  the  intelligence  that  Ichabod 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  287 

Crane  was  still  alive  ;  that  he  had  left  the  neighborhood,  partly 
through  fear  of  the  goblin  and  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  partly  in 
mortification  at  having  been  suddenly  dismissed  by  the  heiress'; 
that  he  had  changed  his  quarters  to  a  distant  part  of  the  country  ; 
had  kept  school  and  studied  law  at  the  same  time,  had  been  admit 
ted  to  the  bar,  turned  politician,  electioneered,  written  for  the  news 
papers,  and  finally  had  been  made  a  justice  of  the  Ten  Pound 
Court.  Brom  Bones,  too,  who  shortly  after  his  rival's  disappearance 
conducted  the  blooming  Katrina  in  triumph  to  the  altar,  wasob-. 
served  to  look  exceedingly  knowing  whenever  the  story  of  Ichabod 
was  related,  and  always  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  mention 
of  the  pumpkin  ;  which  led  some  to  suspect  that  he  knew  more7 
about  the  matter  than  he  chose  to  tell. 

The  old  country  wives,  however,  who  are  the  best  judges  of 
these  matters,  maintain  to  this  day  that  Ichabod  was  spirited 
away  by  supernatural  means  ;  and  it  is  a  favorite  story  often  told 
about  the  neighborhood  round  the  winter  evening  fire.  The  bridge 
became  more  than  ever  an  object  of  superstitious  awe,  and  that 
may  be  the  reason  why  the  road  has  been  altered  of  late  years,  so 
as  to  approach  the  church  by  the  border  of  the  mill-pond.  The 
school-house  being  deserted,  soon  fell  to  decay,  and  was  reported 
to  be  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  the  unfortunate  pedagogue  ;  and  the 
plough-boy,  loitering  homeward  of  a  still  summer  evening  has 
often  fancied  his  voice  at  a  distance,  chanting  a  melancholy  psalm 
tune  among  the  tranquil  solitudes  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

FOUND  IN  THE  HANDWRITING  OF  MR.  KNICKERBOCKER. 

THE  preceding  Tale  is  given  almost  in  the  precise  words  in 
which  I  heard  it  related  at  a  Corporation  meeting  of  the  ancient 
city  of  Manhattoes,  at  which  were  present  many  of  its  sagest  and 
most  illustrious  burghers.  The  narrator  was  a  pleasant,  shabby, 
gentlemanly  old  fellow,  in  pepper-and-salt  clothes,  with  a  sadly 
humorous  face  ;  and  one  whom  I  strongly  suspected  of  being  poor, 
— he  made  such  efforts  to  be  entertaining.  When  his  story  was 
concluded,  there  was  much  laughter  and  approbation,  particularly 
from  two  or  three  deputy  aldermen,  who  had  been  asleep  the  greater 
part  of  the  time.  There  was,  however,  one  tall,  dry-looking  old 
gentleman,  with  beetling  eyebrows,  who  maintained  a  grave  and 
rattier  severe  face  throughout :  now  and  then  folding  his  arms, 
inclining  his  head,  and  looking  down  upon  the  floor,  as  if  turning 
a  doubt  over  in  his  mind.  He  was  one  of  your  wary  men,  who 
never  laugh  but  upon  good  grounds — when  they  have  reason 


288  THE  SKETCH-BOOh. 

the  law  on  their  side.  When  the  mirth  of  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany  had  subsided,  and  silence  was  restored,  he  leaned  one  arm  on 
the  elbow  of  his  chair,  and,  sticking  the  other  akimbo,  demanded, 
with  a  slight  but  exceedingly  sage  motion  of  the  head  and  con 
traction  of  the  brow,  what  was  the  moral  of  the  story,  and  what  it 
went  to  prove  ? 

The  story-teller,  who  was  just  putting  a  glass  of  wine  to  his  lips, 
as  a  refreshment  after  his  toils,  paused  for  a  moment,  looked  at  his 
inquirer  with  an  air  of  infinite  deference,  and,  lowering  the  glass 
slowly  to  the  table,  observed  that  the  story  was  intended  most  log 
ically  to  prove  : — 

"That  there  is  no  situation  in  life  but  has  its  advantages  and 
pleasures — provided  we  will  but  take  a  joke  as  we  find  it. 

"  That,  therefore,  he  that  runs  races  with  goblin  troopers  is  likely 
to  have  rough  riding  of  it. 

"Ergo,  for  a  country  schoolmaster  to  be  refused  the  hand  of  a 
Dutch  heiress,  is  a  certain  step  to  high  preferment  in  the  state." 

The  cautious  old  gentleman  knit  his  brows  tenfold  closer  after 
this  explanation,  being  sorely  puzzled  by  the  ratiocination  of  the 
syllogism  ;  while,  methought,  the  one  in  pepper-and-salt  eyed  him 
with  something  of  a  triumphant  leer.  At  length  he  observed  that 
all  this  was  very  well,  but  still  he  thought  the  story  a  little  on  the 
extravagant — there  were  one  or  two  points  on  which  he  had  his 
doubts. 

"  Faith,  sir,"  replied  the  story-teller,  "as  to  that  matter,  I  don't 
believe  one  half  of  it  myself." 

D.  K. 


L'ENVOY.* 

Go,  little  booke,  God  ser.tf  thee  good  passage, 
And  specially  let  this  he  thy  prayere, 
Unto  them  all  that  thee  will  read  or  hear, 
Where  thon  art  wrong,  after  their  help  to  call, 
Thee  to  correct  in  any  part  or  all. 

CHAUCER'S  Belle  Dame  sans  Mercie. 

IN  concluding  a  second  volume  of  the  Sketch-Book,  the  author 
cannot  but  express  his  deep  sense  of  the  indulgence  with  which 
his  first  has  been  received,  and  of  the  liberal  disposition  that 
has  been  evinced  to  treat  him  with  kindness  as  a  stranger.     Even 
the  critics,  whatever  may  be  said  of  them  by  others,  he  has  found 
to  be  a  singularly  gentle  and  good-natured  race;  it  is  true  that  each 
has  in  turn  objected  to  some  one  or  two  articles,  and  that  these 
individual    exceptions,    taken    in    the    aggregate,    would    amount 
almost  to  a  total  condemnation  of  his  work;  but  then  he  has  been 
*  Closing  the  second  volume  of  the  London  edition. 


L  ENVOY.  389 

consoled  by  observing,  that  what  one  has  particularly  censured 
another  has  as  particularly  praised;  and  thus,  the  encomiums  being 
set  off  against  the  objections,  he  finds  his  work,  upon  the  whole, 
commended  far  beyond  its  deserts. 

He  is  aware  that  he  runs  a  risk  of  forfeiting  much  of  this  kind 
«favor  by  not  following  the  counsel  that  has  been  liberally  bestowed 
upon  him ;  for  where  abundance  of  valuable  advice  is  given  gratis, 
it  may  seem  a  man's  own  fault  if  he  should  go  astray.  He  can 
only  «ay,  in  his  vindication,  that  he  faithfully  determined,  for  a 
time,  to  govern  himself  in  his  second  volume  by  the  opinions 
passed  upon  his  first;  but  he  was  soon  brought  to  a  stand  by  the 
contrariety  of  excellent  counsel.  One  kindly  advised  him  to 
avoid  the  ludicrous;  another  to  shun  the  pathetic;  a  third 
assured  him  that  he  was  tolerable  at  description,  but  cautioned 
him  to  leave  narrative  alone;  while  a  fourth  declared  that  he  had 
a  very  pretty  knack  at  turning  a  story,  and  was  really  entertaining 
when  in  a  pensive  mood,  but  was  grievously  mistaken  if  he  imagined 
himself  to  possess  a  spirit  of  humor. 

Thus  perplexed  by  the  advice  of  his  friends,  who  each  in  turn 
closed  some  particular  path,  but  left  him  all  the  world  beside  'to 
range  in,  he  found  that  to  follow  all  their  counsels  would,  in  fact, 
be  to  stand  still.  He  remained  for  a  time  sadly  embarrassed; 
when,  all  at  once,  the  thought  struck  him  to  ramble  on  as  he  had 
begun ;  that  his  work  being  miscellaneous,  and  written  for  different 
humors,  it  could  not  be  expected  that  any  one  would  be  pleased 
with  the  whole;  but  that  if  it  should  contain  something  to  suit  each 
reader,  his  end  would  be  completely  answered.  Few  guests  sit 
down  to  a  varied  table  with  an  equal  appetite  for  every  dish.  One 
has  an  elegant  horror  of  a  roasted  pig ;  another  holds  a  curry  or  a 
devil  in  utter  abomination;  a  third  cannot  tolerate  the  ancient 
flavor  of  venison  and  wild-fowl ;  and  a  fourth,  of  truly  masculine 
stomach,  looks  with  sovereign  contempt  on  those  knick-knacks, 
here  and  there  dished  up  for  the  ladies.  Thus  each  article  is  con 
demned  in  its  turn;  and  yet,  amidst  this  variety  of  appetites, 
seldom  does  a  dish  go  away  from  the  table  without  being  tasted 
and  relished  by  some  one  or  other  of  the  guests. 

With  these  considerations  he  ventures  to  serve  up  this  second 
volume  in  the  same  heterogeneous  way  with  his  first;  simply 
requesting  the  reader,  if  he  should  find  here  and  there  something  to 
please  him,  to  rest  assured  that  it  was  written  expressly  for  intelli 
gent  readers  like  himself;  but  entreating  him,  should  he  find  any 
thing  to  dislike,  to  tolerate  it,  as  one  of  those  articles  which  the 
author  has  been  obliged  to  write  for  readers  of  a  less  refined 
19 


*9©  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

To  be  serious.— The  author  is  conscious  of  the  numerous  faults 
and  imperfections  of  his  work ;  and  well  aware  how  little  he  is  dis 
ciplined  and  accomplished  in  the  arts  of  authorship.  His  deficien 
cies  are  also  increased  by  a  diffidence  arising  from  his  peculiar  sit 
uation.  He  finds  himself  writing  in  a  strange  land,  and  appearing 
before  a  public  which  he  has  been  accustomed,  from  childhood,  to 
regard  with  the  highest  feelings  of  awe  and  reverence.  He  is  full 
of  solicitude  to  deserve  their  approbation,  yet  finds  that  very  solici 
tude  continually  embarrassing  his  powers,  and  depriving  him  of 
that  ease  and  confidence  which  are  necessary  to  successful  exer 
tion.  Still,  the  kindness  with  which  he  is  treated  encourages  him  to 
go  on,  hoping  that  in  time  he  may  acquire  a  steadier  footing;  and 
thus  he  proceeds,  half  venturing,  half  shrinking,  surprised  at  hi* 
own  good  fortune,  and  wondering  at  bis  own  temerity. 


APPENDIX. 


VOTES  CONCERNING  WESTMINSTER  ASSET. 

TOWARD  the  end  of  the  sixth  century,  when  Britain,  under  tht 
dominion  of  the  Saxons,  was  in  a  state  of  barbarism  and  idolatry,  Pope 
Gregory  the  Great,  struck  with  the  beauty  of  some  Anglo-Saxon  youths 
exposed  for  sale  in  the  market-place  at  Rome,  conceived  a  fancy  for  the 
race,  and  determined  to  send  missionaries  to  preach  the  gospel  among 
these  comely  but  benighted  islanders.  He  was  encouraged  to  this  by 
learning  that  Ethelbert,  kingof  Kent,  and  the  most  potent  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  princes,  had  married  Bertha,  a  Christian  princess,  only  daughter 
of  the  king  of  Paris,  and  that  she  was  allowed  by  stipulation  the  full 
exercise  of  her  religion. 

The  shrewd  Pontiff  knew  the  influence  of  the  sex  in  matters  of  re 
ligious  faith.  He  forthwith  despatched  Augustine,  a  Roman  monk, 
with  forty  associates,  to  the  court  of  Ethelbert  at  Canterbury,  to  effect 
the  conversion  of  the  king  and  to  obtain  through  him  a  foothold  in  the 
island. 

Ethelbert  received  them  warily,  and  held  a  conference  in  the  open 
air;  being  distrustful  of  foreign  priestcraft,  and  fearful  of  spells  and 
magic.  They  ultimately  succeeded  in  making  him  as  good  a  Christian 
as  his  wife;  the  conversion  of  the  king,  of  course,  produced  the  conver 
sion  of  his  loyal  subjects.  The  zeal  and  success  of  Augustine  were 
rewarded  by  his  being  made  archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  being 
endowed  with  authority  over  all  the  British  churches. 

One  of  the  most  prominent  converts  was  Segebert  of  Sebert,  king  of 
the  East  Saxons,  a  nephew  of  Ethelbert.  He  reigned  at  London,  of 
which  Mellitus,  one  of  the  Roman  monks  who  had  come  over  with 
Augustine,  was  made  bishop. 

Sebert,  in  605,  in  his  religious  zeal,  founded  a  monastery  by  the  river 
side  to  the  west  of  the  city,  on  the  ruins  of  a  temple  of  Apollo,  being,  in 
fact,  the  origin  of  the  present  pile  ot  Westminster  Abbey.  Great  pre 
parations  were  made  for  the  consecration  of  the  church,  which  was  to  be 
dedicated  to  St.  Peter.  On  the  morning  of  the  appointed  day,  Mellitus, 
the  bishop,  proceed  with  great  pomp  and  solemnity  to  perform  the 
ceremony.  On  approaching  the  edifice  he  was  met  by  a  fisherman,  who 
informed  him  that  it  was  needless  to  proceed,  as  the  ceremony  was  over. 
The  bishop  stared  with  surprise,  when  the  fisherman  went  on  to  relate 
that  the  night  before,  as  he  was  in  his  boat  on  the  Thames,  St.  Peter 
appeared  to  him,  and  told  him  that  he  intended  to  consecrate  the  church 
himself  that  very  night.  The  apostle  accordingly  went  into  the  church, 
which  suddenly  became  illuminated.  The  ceremony  was  performed  in 
sumptuous  style,  accompanied  by  strains  of  heavenly  music  and  clouds 
of  fragrant  incense.  After  this,  the  apostle  came  into  the  boat  and 
ordered  the  fisherman  to  cast  his  net.  He  did  so  and  had  a  miraculous 
draught  of  fishes  ;  one  of  which  he  was  commanded  to  present  to  the 
bishop,  and  to  signify  to  him  that  the  apostle  had  relieved  him  from  the 
necessity  of  consecrating  the  church. 

Mellitus  was  a  wary  man,  slow  of  belief,  and  required  confirmation  of 
the  fisherman's  tale.  He  opened  the  church  doors  and  beheld  wax 
candles,  crosses,  holy  water,  oil  sprinkled  in  various  places  and  various 
other  traces  of  a  grand  ceremonial.  If  he  had  still  any  lingering  doubts^ 


292  'JH£  SKETCH-BOOK. 

they  were  completely  removed  on  the  fisherman's  producing  the  identi 
cal  fish  which  he  had^been  ordered  by  the  apostle  to  present  to  him. 
To  resist  this  would  have  been  to  resist  ocular  demonstration.  The  good 
bishop  accordingly  was  convinced  that  the  church  had  actually  been 
consecrated  by  St.  Peter  in  person ;  so  he  reverently  abstained  from  pro 
ceeding  further  in  the  business. 

The  foregoing  tradition  is  said  to  be  the  reason  why  King  Edward 
the  Confessor  chose  this  place  as  the  site  of  a  religious  house  which  he 
meant  to  endow.  He  pulled  down  the  old  church  and  built  another  in 
its  place  in  1045.  In  this  his  remains  were  deposited  in  a  magnificent 
shrine. 

The  sacred  edifice  again  underwent  modifications,  if  not  a  reconstruc 
tion,  by  Henry  III.,  in  1220,  and  began  to  assume  its  present  appearance. 

Under  Henry  VIII.  it  lost  its  conventual  character,  that  monarch 
turning  the  monks  away  and  seizing  upon  the  revenues. 


EELICS  OP   EDWARD  THE  CONFESBOB. 

A  curious  narrative  was  printed  in  1688,  by  one  of  the  choristers  of 
the  cathedral,  who  appears  to  have  been  the  Paul  Pry  of  the  sacred 
edifice,  giving  an  account  of  his  rummaging  among  the  bones  of  Edward 
the  Confessor,  after  they  had  quietly  reposed  in  their  sepulchre  upwards 
of  six  hundred  years,  and  of  his  drawing  forth  the  crucifix  and  golden 
chain  of  the  deceased  monarch.  During  eighteen  years  that  he  had 
officiated  in  the  choir,  it  had  been  a  common  tradition,  he  says,  among 
his  brother  choristers  and  the  gray-headed  servants  of  the  abbey,  that 
the  body  of  King  Edward  was  deposited  in  a  kind  of  chest  or  coffin, 
which  was  indistinctly  seen  in  the  upper  part  of  the  shrine  erected  to  his 
memory.  None  of  the  abbey  gossips,  however,  had  ventured  upon  a 
nearer  inspection,  until  the  worthy  narrator,  to  gratify  his  curiosity, 
mounted  to  the  coffin  by  the  aid  of  a  ladder,  and  found  it  to  be  made  of 
wood,  apparently  very  strong  and  firm,  being  secured  by  bands  of 
iron. 

Subsequently,  in  1685,  on  taking  down  the  scaffolding  used  in  the 
coronation  of  James  II.,  the  coffin  was  found  to  be  broken,  a  hole  ap 
pearing  in  the  lid,  probably  made,  through  accident,  by  the  workmen. 
No  one  ventured,  however,  to  meddle  with  the  sacred  depository  of 
royal  dust,  until,  several  weeks  afterwards,  the  circumstance  came  to  the 
knowledge  of  the  aforesaid  chorister.  He  forthwith  repaired  to  the 
abbey  in  company  with  two  friends  of  congenial  tastes,  who  were  de 
sirous  of  inspecting  the  tombs.  Procuring  a  ladder,  he  again  mounted 
to  the  coffin  and  found,  as  had  been  represented,  a  hole  in  the  lid  about 
six  inches  long  and  four  inches  broad,  just  in  front  of  the  left  breast. 
Thrusting  in  his  hand,  and  groping  among  the  bones,  he  drew  from  un 
derneath  the  shoulder  a  crucifix,  richly  adorned  and  enameled,  affixed 
to  a  gold  chain  twenty-four  inches  long.  These  he  showed  to  his  inquis 
itive  friends  who  were  equally  surprised  with  himself. 

"At  the  time,"  says  he,  "  when  I  took  the  cross  and  chain  out  of  the 
coffin,  I  drew  the  head  to  the  hole  and  viewed  it,  being  very  sound  and 
firm,  with  the  upper  and  nether  jaws  whole  and  full  of  teeth,  and  a  list 
of  gold  above  an  inch  broad,  in  the  nature  of  a  coronet,  surrounding  the 
temples.  There  was  also  in  the  coffin  white  linen  and  gold- colored, 
flowered  silk,  that  looked  indifferent  fresh;  but  the  least  stress  put 
thereto  showed  it  was  well  nigh  perished.  There  were  all  his  bones, 
and  much  dust  likewise  which  I  left  as  I  found." 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive  a  more  grotesque  lesson  to  human  pride  than 
the  skull  of  Edward  the  Confessor  thus  irreverently  pulled  about  in  its 


APPENDIX.  **3 

ooffln  by  a  prying  chorister,  and  brought  to  grin  face  to  fece  with  him 

through  a  hole  in  the  lid  f 

Having  satisfied  his  curiosity,  the  chorister  put  the  crucifix  and  chain 
back  again  into  the  coffin  and  sought  the  dean,  to  apprise  him  of  his 
discovery.  The  dean  not  being  accessible  at  the  time,  and  fearing  that 
the  "holy  treasure"  might  be  taken  away  by  other  hands,  he  got  a 
brother  chorister  to  accompany  him  to  the  shine  about  two  or  three 
hours  afterwards,  and  in  his  presence  again  drew  forth  the  relics.  These 
he  afterwards  delivered  on  his  knees  to  King  James.  The  king  subse 
quently  had  the  old  coffin  inclosed  in  a  new  dneof  great  strength :  "each 
pJank  being  two  inches  thick  and  cramped  together  with  large  iron 
wedges,  where  it  now  remains  (1688)  as  a  testimony  of  his  pious  care, 
that  no  abuse  might  be  offered  to  the  sacred  ashes  therein  deposited." 

As  the  history  of  this  shrine  is  full  of  moral,  I  subjoin  a  description 
of  it  in  modern  times.  !<  The  solitary  and  forlorn  shrine,"  says  a  British 
writer,  "  now  stands  a  mere  skeleton  of  what  it  was.  A  few  faint  traces 
of  its  sparkling  decorations  inlaid  on  solid  mortar  catches  the  rays  of  the 
sun,  forever  set  on  its  splendor  *  *  *  *  Only  two  of  the  spiral 
pillars  remain.  The  wooden  Ionic  top  is  much  broken,  and  covered 
with  dust.  The  mosaic  is  picked  away  in  every  part  within  reach ;  only 
the  lozenges  of  about  a  foot  square  and  five  circular  pieces  of  the  rich 
marble  remain."— Malcolm,  Lond.  rediv. 


INSCRIPTION  ON  A  MONUMENT  ALLUDED  TO  IK  THE  SKETCH. 

Here  lyes  the  Loyal  Duke  of  Newcastle,  and  his  Duchess  his  second 
wife,  by  whom  he  had  no  issue.  Her  name  was  Margaret  Lucas,  young 
est  sister  to  the  Lord  Lucas  of  Colchester,  a  noble  family ;  for  all  the 
brothers  were  valiant,  and  all  the  sisters  virtuous.  This  Duchess  was  a 
wise,  witty,  and  learned  lady,  which  her  many  Bookes  do  well  testify: 
she  was  a  most  virtuous  and  loving  and  careful  wife,  and  was  with  her 
lord  all  the  time  of  his  banishment  and  miseries,  and  when  he  came 
borne,  never  parted  from  him.  in  his  solitary  retirement. 


In  the  winter  time,  when  the  days  are  short,  the  service  in  the  after 
noon  is  performed  by  the  light  of  tapers.  The  effect  is  fine  of  the  choir 
partially  lighted  up,  while  the  main  oody  of  the  cathedral  and  the  tran 
septs  are  in  profound  and  cavernous  darkness.  The  white  dresses  of  the 
choristers  gleam  amidst  the  deep  brown  of  the  open  slats  and  canopies ; 
the  partial  illumination  makes  enormous  shadows  from  columns  and 
screens,  and  darting  into  the  surrounding  gloom,  catches  here  and  there 
upon  a  sepulchral  decoration  or  monumental  effigy.  The  swelling 
notes  of  the  organ  accord  well  with  the  scene. 

When  the  service  is  over,  the  dean  is  lighted  to  his  dwelling,  in  the 
old  conventual  part  of  the  pile,  by  the  boys  of  the  choir,  in  their  white 
dresses,  bearing  tapers,  and  the  procession  passes  through  the  abbey 
and  along  the  shadowy  cloisters,  lighting  up  angles  and  arches  and  grim 
sepulchral  monuments  and  leaving  all  behind  in  darkness. 

On  entering  the  cloisters  at  night  from  what  is  called  the  Dean's  Yard, 
the  eye  ranging  through  a  dark  vaulted  passage  catches  a  distant  view 
of  a  white  marble  figure  reclining  on  a  tomb,  on  which  a  strong  glare 
thrown  by  a  gas  light  has  quite  a  spectral  effect.  It  is  a  mural  mona 
mem  of  one  of  the  Pultneys. 

THE  END. 


863 


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